Chullin 85

Hook

Close your eyes for a second and let yourself drift back.

It’s the final Saturday night of the summer. The air has that crisp, late-August bite that tells you autumn is waiting just beyond the treeline. You’re sitting on a damp wooden bench, shoulder-to-shoulder with people who knew only a caricature of you two months ago, but who now feel like keepers of your deepest secrets. In the center of the circle, the Havdalah candle is burning—not with a single, neat flame, but with that wild, braided torch that casts giant, dancing shadows against the white pines.

Someone starts hum-singing. You know the tune. It’s that wordless, climbing niggun that always starts in the soles of your feet and ends somewhere in the back of your throat.

“Lai-la-lai, lai-lai-lai-lai-lai, lai-la-lai…”

Start with a low hum in your chest—go ahead, actually do it right now, wherever you are reading this. Let it vibrate. Feel that transition from the quiet, structured world of the everyday into the messy, expansive, boundary-less space of the sacred wildwood.

Voice 1:   Mmm-mmm-mm-mm... (low, steady drone)
Voice 2:   Lai-la-lai, lai-lai-lai-lai-lai... (climbing, searching)
Unison:    Yai-da-dai, da-dai-da-dai-da-dai! (bursting open)

At camp, everything made sense because we lived in a beautifully curated bubble. The transitions were marked by bugles and bells; the boundaries between the holy and the mundane were as clear as the lake water at 6:00 AM. But then, you pack your duffel bag. You get in the car. You drive back down the highway, and suddenly, the neat lines start to blur.

You enter the "real world"—a world of gray areas, unfinished projects, messy relationships, and spiritual ambiguity. How do we bring that campfire Torah home when the campfires are gone, and we’re left with the cluttered realities of our kitchens, our offices, and our living rooms?

Today, we are diving deep into Chullin 85, a text that is ostensibly about the laws of ritual slaughter and covering the blood of wild animals. But look closer under the talmudic microscope, and you’ll find it’s actually a survival guide for living in the gray zones, honoring our "unfit" or "broken" attempts at goodness, and finding holiness in the pests and problems of our everyday lives. Grab your flashlight. Let’s sit on the log and unpack this together.

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Context

To understand where we are dropping our canoes into the water, we need to map the terrain of Chullin 85. Here are three orienting coordinates to guide your journey:

• The Wild vs. The Domesticated: The Torah dictates in Leviticus 17:13 that when a hunter traps and slaughters a wild animal (chayah) or a bird (of), they must cover its blood with earth (kisuy hadam). This mitzvah does not apply to domesticated animals (behemah), like cows or sheep. This distinction sets up a fascinating legal boundary between the civilized, predictable world of the home and the untamed, unpredictable world of the forest.
• The Ambiguity of the Trail: What happens when we encounter a creature that defies our neat categories? Enter the koy—an animal of uncertain status. Is it a wild deer or a domesticated goat? The rabbis use the koy as a case study for how Jewish law navigates radical uncertainty. Like a hiker finding an ambiguous footprint in the mud—not quite a dog, not quite a wolf—the Talmud must decide how to act when we simply do not know where we stand.
• The Anatomy of Action: The core of our text wrestles with a concept called shechitah she'eina re'uyah (unfit or ineffective slaughter). This refers to an act of slaughter that is structurally executed correctly but ultimately fails to render the animal kosher (for example, if the animal is discovered to have a terminal defect, making it a tereifa). The rabbis debate a profound existential question: If an action fails to achieve its functional goal, does the action itself still hold spiritual reality, or is it rendered completely meaningless?

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Text Snapshot

Let us look directly at the text of the Gemara in Chullin 85a. We will focus on two key movements: first, the debate over how we treat ambiguous identities (tumtum and koy), and second, the dispute between Rabbi Meir and Rabbi Shimon regarding "unfit" actions.

אלא צריך אתה לומר שמדובר בספק איש ספק אשה, כגון טומטום, וביום טוב ודאי. שלמרות שאשה פטורה מתקיעת שופר, טומטום שהוא ספק איש ספק אישה — חייב בתקיעת שופר. ומכאן יש ללמוד שגם כוי, שהוא ספק בהמה ספק חיה — טעון כיסוי ביום טוב.

Rather, it must be that the uncertainty concerns whether a particular individual is a man or a woman, e.g., a tumtum, whose sexual organs are indeterminate. Although a woman is not obligated in the mitzvah of sounding the shofar, a tumtum is in fact obligated, despite the uncertainty... It is therefore possible to derive from this that if one slaughters a koy—an animal whose status as a domesticated or undomesticated animal is uncertain—on a Festival, one covers its blood.

חייב לכסות... רבי מאיר אומר: שחיטה שאינה ראויה שמה שחיטה. ורבי שמעון אומר: שחיטה שאינה ראויה לא שמה שחיטה.

...Rabbi Meir deems one obligated to cover the blood [of an unfit slaughter], and the Sages [representing Rabbi Shimon's view] deem one exempt... Rabbi Meir holds: An act of slaughter that is not fit is nevertheless considered an act of slaughter. And Rabbi Shimon holds: An act of slaughter that is not fit is not considered an act of slaughter.

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Close Reading

Now, let’s unpack these texts with the help of our classic commentators. We aren't just looking for abstract legal definitions here; we are looking for the "grown-up legs" of this campfire Torah—how these ancient debates speak to the way we build our homes, raise our families, and treat ourselves when we stumble.

Insight 1: Sacred Ambiguity and the Courage of the Koy

Let’s look closely at the first movement of our text. The Gemara is trying to figure out if we are allowed to cover the blood of a koy (the ambiguous animal) on a Jewish Festival (Yom Tov). Normally, digging dirt and covering blood involves labor that is prohibited on Yom Tov. We only allow it if there is a definite obligation. But the koy is a walking question mark! It might be a domesticated animal, which requires no covering at all. If we cover its blood, we might be violating the sanctity of the holiday for no halakhic reason.

To solve this, the Gemara brings in an extraordinary parallel: the tumtum—an individual whose physical anatomy is indeterminate, rendering their gender identity ambiguous under classical rabbinic categories.

Look at how Rashi sharpens this on Rashi on Chullin 85a:1:1:

אלא ספק איש - ודוחה יום טוב גמור "Rather, a doubt concerning a man—and it overrides a complete Festival."

And Steinsaltz on Steinsaltz on Chullin 85a:1 expands this beautifully:

שלמרות שאשה פטורה מתקיעת שופר, טומטום שהוא ספק איש ספק אישה — חייב בתקיעת שופר "Even though a woman is exempt from shofar, a tumtum, who is a doubt-man-doubt-woman, is obligated in shofar..."

Because of this doubt, we blow the shofar for the tumtum on Rosh Hashanah, even if Rosh Hashanah falls on Yom Tov. The Talmud uses this to prove that we also cover the blood of the koy on Yom Tov.

Think about the spiritual radicalism of this legal move. In a highly structured, binary legal system, you might expect the rabbis to look at the tumtum or the koy and say, "You don't fit our categories, so you are excluded. Sit this one out until we have more clarity."

Instead, the Torah does the exact opposite. It says: The doubt itself generates obligation. The ambiguity of the koy and the tumtum does not freeze them out of the sacred circle; it actually overrides the restrictive laws of the Festival! The gray area itself becomes a space of deep, urgent spiritual demand.

How often do we do this to ourselves in our home lives? We tell ourselves:

• "I’m not fully religious enough, so I won't host Shabbat dinner."
• "My family is too messy, too non-traditional, so we don't fit the 'perfect' Jewish home mold."
• "I’m in a transition period in my career, so I can't commit to a community right now."

We treat our personal "in-betweenness" as an exemption from holiness. But Chullin 85 teaches us that the koy still gets its blood covered, and the tumtum still hears the shofar. God meets us in the transition. Your home doesn't have to be a finished, perfectly categorized temple for it to be holy. The very fact that you are wrestling in the gray zone is what makes your life a sacred text.

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Insight 2: The Dignity of the "Unfit" Attempt

Now let's move to the second major dispute in our text: Rabbi Meir vs. Rabbi Shimon on the question of shechitah she'eina re'uyah (unfit slaughter).

Imagine you go through the entire, meticulous process of kosher slaughter. You check the knife (chalaf) to ensure it is perfectly smooth. You cut the windpipe and the gullet with precision. But after the act is done, you open up the animal and find a lung puncture that existed before the slaughter. The animal was a tereifa—it was dying anyway. The meat is completely non-kosher. You cannot eat it. It is, by all functional measures, a failure.

• Rabbi Meir says: Shemeh shechitah—It is still called an act of slaughter! You are still obligated to perform the ritual of covering its blood.
• Rabbi Shimon says: Lo shemeh shechitah—If it didn't result in kosher food, the action is a non-event. It's as if you just stabbed it. No covering required.

To understand Rabbi Meir's view, we have to look at how he derives it. The Gemara on Chullin 85a:10 explains that Rabbi Meir uses a verbal analogy (gezerah shavah) of the word "slaughter" (shechitah) from the laws of sacrificial offerings slaughtered outside the Temple (shchutei chutz):

גמר בגזירה שווה שחיטה שחיטה משחוטי חוץ... מה התם שחיטה שאינה ראויה שמה שחיטה, אף הכא נמי... "He derives it through a verbal analogy of 'slaughter' and 'slaughter' from sacrificial animals outside the Temple... Just as there, an unfit slaughter is still called 'slaughter,' so too here..."

Let's look at the Ritva on Ritva on Chullin 85a:3 to understand the depth of this analogy:

כיון דבגז"ש גמיר לה שפיר גמרי' מינה... דסוף סוף הא קרי' רחמנא שחיט' "Since he learns it through a verbal analogy, we derive it well... because ultimately, the Merciful One calls it 'slaughter.'"

The Ritva is pointing out something profound. Even when an act is forbidden, even when it takes place outside the sacred courtyard of the Temple and cannot be eaten, the Torah still uses the word shechitah to describe it. The linguistic reality of the action remains intact, even when the functional outcome is broken.

Now, let's look at the Dor Revi'i (written by Rabbi Moshe Shmuel Glasner, the great-grandson of the Chatam Sofer) on Dor Revi'i on Chullin 85a:2:1-2, who offers a brilliant, game-changing analysis of this entire dispute.

The Dor Revi'i asks a fascinating editorial question: Why did Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi (the editor of the Mishnah, known simply as "Rabbi") rule like Rabbi Meir in one tractate and like Rabbi Shimon in another?

Specifically, in the laws of oto v'et bno (the prohibition against slaughtering an animal and its offspring on the same day), Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi rules like Rabbi Meir—that even an unfit slaughter counts as a "slaughter" to violate the prohibition. But in the laws of kisuy hadam (covering the blood), Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi rules like Rabbi Shimon—that an unfit slaughter does not require you to cover the blood.

The Dor Revi'i explains that this isn't just a random contradiction. It reflects a deep, psychological truth about human action:

רבי... פוסק כאן כמר וכאן כמר ע״כ דאין טעם הדבר שוה בכל אלו... דבאמת רק אליבא דרבי בעינן הני טעמים... "Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi rules here like this Master and there like that Master, because the underlying reason is not the same in all these cases..."

The Dor Revi'i suggests that Rabbi Meir and Rabbi Shimon are arguing about the very definition of human effort.

• For Rabbi Meir, the essence of an action lies in the process and the form. If you showed up, if you held the knife, if you made the cut with care and intention—that action has achieved its own ontological status. It is "called slaughter." It cannot be erased just because the internal reality of the animal was broken beyond your control.
• For Rabbi Shimon, the essence of an action is defined by its utility and outcome. If it doesn't lead to a permitted meal, if it doesn't feed a human being, then the action evaporates into thin air. It is "not called slaughter."

By splitting his rulings, Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi is teaching us that both of these perspectives are true depending on the context.

When it comes to prohibitions and boundaries (oto v'et bno), we rule like Rabbi Meir. Why? Because we must be incredibly careful about the destructive power of our actions, even when those actions seem "unfit" or incomplete. A cruel act, or a careless act, still leaves a scar on the world, even if it didn't achieve its intended goal.

But when it comes to positive mitzvot of elevation and refinement (kisuy hadam—covering the blood, bringing dignity to life), we sometimes align with Rabbi Shimon, recognizing that we must strive for actions that are fully aligned, functional, and life-giving.

Let’s bring this home. How many of us are recovering perfectionists?

We try to implement a new family ritual—say, a Friday night blessing over the kids, or a screen-free Havdalah. But then, five minutes in, the toddler spills the grape juice, the pre-teen rolls their eyes, and you lose your temper. The "kosher" Shabbat you envisioned has just become a tereifa—it is broken, unfit, and definitely not what was pictured in the parenting magazines.

Under Rabbi Shimon’s strict lens of utility, you might say: "Well, that was a complete failure. Let's not do that again. It wasn't 'called a ritual.'"

But Rabbi Meir stands beside your messy dining room table, points to your spilled grape juice, and says: "Shemeh shechitah! It is still called an act of holiness!"

The fact that you tried, the fact that you gathered your family, the fact that you held the intentions of Shabbat in your heart—that action is real. It has weight. It is registered in the cosmic ledger of love and effort. The failure to achieve a "perfect" outcome does not retroactively erase the beauty of your attempt.

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Insight 3: Moths, Flax, and the Holy Work of Pest Control

Let us close our reading with one of the most delightful and earthy stories in the entire Talmud, found at the end of Chullin 85b:

רבי חייא אייבוש ליה כתנא. אתא לקמיה דרבי, אמר ליה: שקול צפורא ושחוט עילוי תנורא דמיא, דמריח דמא ונפק... "Moths infested the flax of Rabbi Hiyya. He came before Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi to ask how to get rid of them. Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi said to him: Take a bird and slaughter it over the tub of water in which the flax is soaked, as the moths will smell the blood and leave..."

This is a classic "camp problem." You’ve got pests. Your gear is getting ruined. Rabbi Hiyya is a great scholar, but his livelihood—his flax—is being eaten by moths. He doesn't go to the doctor of theology; he goes to his Rabbi for pest control advice.

And Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi gives him a folk remedy: use bird blood to lure the moths away.

But then the Talmud stops and asks a beautiful, neurotic question: Wait a minute! You can't just slaughter a bird for its blood to catch moths! If you slaughter it, you are obligated to cover the blood immediately. You can't just leave it sitting in a tub of water to attract bugs!

The Gemara offers two brilliant workarounds from Eretz Yisrael:

1. Rav Dimi's version: Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi told him to make the bird a tereifa (unfit) before killing it, so that the killing wouldn't be halakhically defined as "slaughter," and thus he wouldn't be obligated to cover the blood.
2. Ravin's version: He told him to "tear loose" (mleka) the windpipe instead of slaughtering it.

Why does this story matter to us?

Because it shows that the Sages of the Talmud did not live in sterile ivory towers. They lived in the world of damp flax, moth infestations, and agricultural grit. They understood that sometimes, you have to get your hands dirty to solve a practical problem, and they used the delicate machinery of halakhah to find a way to make it work.

They didn't say, "Flax moths are beneath the dignity of Torah." They said, "Let’s use the laws of Chullin 85—the laws of unfit slaughter and alternative killing—to save Rabbi Hiyya's crop."

Your everyday chores—doing the dishes, cleaning the gutters, dealing with the mold in the bathroom, organizing your budget—are not "distractions" from your spiritual life. They are your spiritual life. The Torah is a blueprint for living in a world where moths eat your flax, and it invites you to use your intellect and your traditions to bring holiness into those very spaces.

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Micro-Ritual

How do we take this high-level talmudic theory and turn it into a physical, sensory practice at home this Friday night or Saturday night?

We are going to introduce a new domestic ritual called "The Kisuy HaSparks" (Covering the Spilled Sparks), to be integrated into your Havdalah ceremony.

Havdalah is the ultimate "boundary" ritual. We use wine, spices, and fire to separate the holy day of Shabbat from the ordinary workweek. But as we know, that transition can be bumpy. The anxiety of the coming week often starts creeping in before the candle is even extinguished.

This ritual is designed to help you and your family honor the "unfit" attempts of your past week, hold space for your personal "koy-like" ambiguities, and cover them with grace.

What You Need:

• Your standard Havdalah set (wine, spices, braided candle).
• A wide, shallow plate or tray to place under your kiddush cup.
• A small, beautiful bowl filled with dry soil, sand, or a mixture of ground spices (like cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg).
• A small wooden spoon.

       [ Havdalah Cup ]  <-- Let it overflow!
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      =================  <-- The Tray (where the spilled wine pools)
      [  Spilled Wine ]  
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      [ Bowl of Sand/Spices ] --> Spooned over the spill to "cover" it

The Step-by-Step Ritual:

1. The Overflow: When you fill your Havdalah cup to the very brim, intentionally let a few drops—or even a small stream—overflow onto the tray. In Jewish tradition, an overflowing cup represents a blessing of abundance Psalms 23:5. But practically, it’s also a mess. It’s sticky. It’s "unfit" for neat consumption. Let that spilled wine represent the messy, imperfect, and unresolved moments of your week.

2. The Silent Reflection: Before you extinguish the candle in the wine, take a collective moment of silence. Invite everyone around the table to think of one thing from the past week that felt like an "unfit slaughter"—a conversation that went wrong, an goal they didn't reach, or a part of themselves that felt like a koy (stuck in the middle, neither here nor there).

3. The Covering (Kisuy): Instead of rushing to wipe up the sticky spill with a rag, pass around the small bowl of sand or spices. Have each person take a small spoonful.

4. The Kavannah (Intention): Recite the following words together (or have one person read them):

   "In the forest of Chullin, we learned that even the ambiguous koy deserves honor, and even the unfit attempt is called holy. We do not throw away our spilled wine, and we do not erase our broken efforts. Like the hunter in the wildwood, we cover these sparks with earth. We cover our mistakes with self-compassion. We cover our doubts with trust. May our imperfect week be held in the arms of the One who creates both the wild and the domestic."

5. The Action: Gently spoon the sand or spices over the spilled wine on the tray, completely covering the wet spots. Watch how the dry earth absorbs the liquid, turning the sticky mess into a fragrant, grounded mound.

6. The Sweet Smelling Finish: Sing Eliyahu HaNavi or Shavua Tov with renewed energy. The scent of the wet spices will rise up, filling your home with the fragrance of a forest after the rain.

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Chevruta Mini

If you are sitting with a partner, a spouse, a friend, or even journal-writing by yourself, use these two questions to dig deeper into the soil of Chullin 85:

1. The Koy in Your Mirror: We saw that the koy is an animal of indeterminate status, yet the Torah creates a beautiful, specific set of rules to honor its blood on Yom Tov. What is a part of your own identity or life path right now that feels like a koy—neither fully "wild" nor fully "domesticated," neither here nor there? How can you begin to treat that ambiguous space as "holy" rather than "broken"?
2. The Definiton of Success: Rabbi Meir and Rabbi Shimon represent two fundamentally different ways of evaluating our efforts: Rabbi Meir looks at the integrity of the process (even an unfit slaughter is "called slaughter"), while Rabbi Shimon looks at the utility of the outcome (if you can't eat it, it doesn't count). In your professional or family life, which of these voices is louder? How would your self-talk change if you leaned a bit more into Rabbi Meir's perspective when evaluating your "failed" attempts?

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Takeaway

When we leave the high-energy, pristine bubble of camp, it’s easy to feel like our spiritual lives are constantly getting "inflicted with moths," just like Rabbi Hiyya's flax. We get bogged down by the mundane, the ambiguous, and the imperfect.

But Chullin 85 is here to tell us that the wilderness is not the enemy of the holy; it is its birthplace.

The Torah does not require you to be a perfectly categorized domestic animal, living a perfectly predictable life. It has space for the koy. It has space for the tumtum. And it has deep, abiding respect for your "unfit" attempts at goodness.

So the next time your Friday night dinner falls apart, or your spiritual practice feels like a total mess, don't throw up your hands and walk away. Take a deep breath. Hum that old campfire niggun. Remember Rabbi Meir's radical grace: Shemeh shechitah—the effort still counts. Cover those spilled sparks with love, and step boldly into the new week.

Shavua Tov! Go bring the forest home.