Chullin 85

Hook

In the quiet, amber-lit hours of a Mediterranean afternoon, a hakham stands in a stone-paved courtyard, holding a vessel of dry, sifted earth. Before him lies the lifeblood of a fowl, and with a voice seasoned by generations of devotion, he recites a blessing that transforms a simple physical act into a cosmic drama of honor, earth, and transition. This is the world of Sephardi and Mizrahi Torah—a world where the boundaries between the wild and the domestic, the certain and the uncertain, the law of the blade and the song of the soul are never flattened, but are instead navigated with poetic warmth, legal precision, and a deep, sensory reverence for the physical world.

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Context

To fully appreciate the depth of the Talmudic discussions in Chullin 85a, we must ground ourselves in the historical soil from which these traditions bloomed and the Sephardic and Mizrahi legacy that preserved and beautified them.

Place: The Mediterranean Littoral and the Fertile Crescent

The geographical landscape of our text begins in the ancient, dusty paths of the Galilee—specifically Tiberias and Sepphoris—where the Tannaim and Amoraim walked, debated, and observed the agricultural realities of the Roman Levant. From these Galilean hills, the conversation traveled to the monumental academies of Babylonia (Sura, Pumbedita, and Nehardea) along the banks of the Euphrates and Tigris rivers. Centuries later, this legal heritage was inherited, codified, and sung in the vibrant Jewish quarters of North Africa (Fez, Kairouan), the Golden Age of Spain (Andalusia, Toledo), and the mystical, wind-swept alleys of Safed in the sixteenth century.

Era: The Weaving of the Talmudic Tapestry to the Golden Age

Our primary text resides in the late Tannaitic and early Amoraic period (2nd to 3rd Century CE), a time of transition when the oral traditions of Israel were being structured into the Mishnaic and Talmudic frameworks. This was an era when sages like Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi (the redactor of the Mishnah) and his student Rabbi Hiyya grappled with how to preserve the fluidity of oral debate while establishing clear, actionable halakha (Jewish law). This text’s journey continued through the medieval era, where Sephardic titans like Rabbeinu Chananel of Kairouan, the Rif (Rabbi Isaac Alfasi of Morocco), and the Rambam (Maimonides of Egypt) refined these debates into the living customs of the Mediterranean basin.

Community: The Guardians of Living Halakha

The Sephardic and Mizrahi communities have historically rejected the dichotomy between rigorous, academic legalism and warm, emotional spirituality. For these communities, the laws of kosher slaughter (shechitah), the covering of the blood (kisuy hadam), and the sounding of the Shofar on Rosh HaShana were not merely clinical obligations performed in isolation. They were communal events, deeply intertwined with the rhythms of nature, the beauty of liturgical poetry (piyut), and a profound respect for the diversity of human and animal life. In these communities, the shochet (ritual slaughterer) was not a factory worker but a spiritual leader, often serving as the community’s cantor (chazzan) and teacher, whose hands were expected to be as pure as his voice.

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Text Snapshot

The following passage from Chullin 85a forms the core of our exploration. It presents a dynamic debate concerning the boundaries of obligation, the resolution of legal uncertainty (safek), and the status of optional commandments:

Rather, it must be that the uncertainty in the case of the sounding of the shofar 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 mitzva of sounding the shofar, a tumtum is in fact obligated, despite the uncertainty of sex. It is therefore possible to derive from the sounding of the shofar 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.

The Gemara notes: And Rabbi Yosei, who does not accept this refutation, conforms to his standard line of reasoning, as he says: One who is definitely a woman may also sound the shofar on Rosh HaShana...

Rabbi Yosei and Rabbi Shimon say: It is optional for women to place their hands on the head of an offering before it is slaughtered. Even though women are not obligated to place their hands, doing so is not considered to be performing labor with a sacrificial item... Similarly, Rabbi Yosei holds that although women are not obligated in the sounding of the shofar, it is optional for them to sound it, and it is not considered a desecration of the Festival.

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Minhag/Melody

The Liturgical Poetry of the Blade: Shochetim and the Songs of Purity

In the Sephardic and Mizrahi tradition, the acts of shechitah (ritual slaughter) and kisuy hadam (covering the blood) are elevated through melody and poetry. Far from being viewed as a grim necessity, the transition of life described in Tractate Chullin is approached with a solemnity that borders on the temple service.

In the Jewish communities of Yemen, Morocco, and Iraq, the shochetim did not merely study the dry legal codes; they immersed themselves in piyutim written specifically for their craft. Before a shochet would examine his knife (sakin) to ensure its absolute smoothness—free of even the microscopic nick that would render the slaughter invalid—he would sing. In Yemen, the shochetim would chant beautiful, haunting melodies based on the poetry of Rabbi Shalom Shabazi, asking God for focus, clarity of sight, and a steady hand.

This connection between song and slaughter is beautifully illuminated by the narrative on Chullin 85b regarding Rabbi Hiyya’s flax moths. The Talmud relates:

Moths infested the flax of Rabbi Ḥiyya. He came before Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi to ask how to get rid of the moths. Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi said to him: Take a bird and slaughter it over the tub of water in which the flax was soaked, as the moths will smell the blood and leave the flax.

The Gemara immediately raises a challenge: How could Rabbi Hiyya use the bird’s blood for this purpose, when the Torah obligates us to cover the blood of a bird and forbids using it for other benefits? The Gemara offers two traditions of how Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi resolved this: either by telling Rabbi Hiyya to "render the bird a tereifa" (fatally injured) before slaughtering it, or to "tear loose" the windpipe and gullet rather than performing a standard shechitah.

This story shows the intense, practical involvement of the sages with the natural world. In Sephardic communities, this story was studied not just as abstract law, but as a guide to living in harmony with nature. The Moroccan sages noted that Rabbi Hiyya, a great sage who brought Torah to the masses, was also a merchant of flax. His Torah was lived in the marketplace, in the water tubs, and in the fields. The melodies sung by Sephardic shochetim during their work reflected this integration of the heavenly and the earthly.

The Ceremony of the Dust: Celebration of Kisuy HaDam

The mitzvah of kisuy hadam, covering the blood of undomesticated animals (chayah) and birds (of) with dust, is derived from Leviticus 17:13: "And he shall pour out its blood and cover it with dust." In Sephardic and Mizrahi communities, this mitzvah is treated as a highly anticipated communal honor.

When a bird is slaughtered in a traditional Sephardic setting—such as before a festive meal or during the preparations for Yom Kippur—the shochet does not quietly cover the blood alone. Instead, a vessel of fine, clean earth (often mixed with fragrant spices or dried leaves in some North African customs) is prepared. The shochet or a distinguished member of the community, often a young child who has reached the age of mitzvot, is invited to perform the covering.

The crowd gathers around, and a hush falls over the courtyard. The one performing the mitzvah recites the blessing:

$$\text{\dots אֲשֶׁר קִדְּשָׁנוּ בְּמִצְוֹתָיו וְצִוָּנוּ עַל כִּסּוּי הַדָּם בֶּעָפָר}$$

"...Who has sanctified us with His commandments and commanded us concerning the covering of the blood with dust."

The assembly responds with a resounding "Amen!" followed by the singing of piyutim celebrating the earth and the breath of life. In some Syrian and Egyptian families, it was customary to throw silver coins into a collection box immediately after the blessing, transforming the moment of animal death into an opportunity for tzedakah (charity) and life-affirming action.

This celebratory approach is deeply connected to the Talmudic discussion of the koy on Chullin 85a. The koy is an animal of uncertain status—is it a domesticated beast (behemah), whose blood does not require covering, or an undomesticated beast (chayah), whose blood must be covered?

To understand this, we must look at the commentary of Adin Steinsaltz on Chullin 85a:1:

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, you must say that we are dealing with an individual of uncertain sex, such as a tumtum, and on a definite Festival. For although a woman is exempt from the sounding of the shofar, a tumtum who is of uncertain sex—doubtfully a man, doubtfully a woman—is obligated in the sounding of the shofar due to the doubt. And from here we can derive that also a koy, which is of uncertain status—doubtfully a domesticated animal, doubtfully an undomesticated animal—requires covering of the blood on a Festival."

The Sephardic mind, guided by the codification of the Rambam, embraces this legal complexity with a physical ritual. On a Festival (Yom Tov), we are normally prohibited from preparing earth for digging or covering, as it constitutes a violation of the creative labors prohibited on holy days. However, because the koy presents a doubt, the sages analyze whether the positive obligation of covering a potential chayah can override the restrictions of the Festival.

This is where Rashi’s concise commentary on Chullin 85a:1:1 shines:

אלא ספק איש - ודוחה יום טוב גמור

"Rather, an uncertain man—and it overrides a complete Festival."

For the Sephardic communities of the Ottoman Empire, this discussion was not merely academic. It influenced how they prepared their courtyards before the holidays. They would prepare piles of sifted earth before the onset of the Festival, ensuring that if any slaughter of fowl took place, they could perform the mitzvah of kisuy hadam without violating the laws of Yom Tov. The physical preparation of the dust became a tangible, tactile anticipation of the holy day.

The Silence of the Blessing: Sephardic Women and the Shofar

Our Talmudic text on Chullin 85a introduces a profound debate regarding the relationship of women to time-bound positive commandments, specifically the sounding of the Shofar on Rosh HaShana and the laying of hands (semichah) on sacrifices.

The Gemara cites Rabbi Yosei and Rabbi Shimon, who hold that:

"It is optional for women to place their hands on the head of an offering... and they may also sound the shofar on Rosh HaShana."

How this Talmudic passage is translated into practice reveals one of the most beautiful and distinctive features of Sephardic halakha.

In the Ashkenazic world, the ruling of the Rema (Rabbi Moses Isserles) established that women, although exempt from time-bound positive mitzvot, may perform them and recite the accompanying blessing (berachah), including the words "and commanded us."

However, in the Sephardic and Mizrahi world, the halakhic consensus follows Maran Yosef Karo in the Shulchan Aruch. Maran rules that since women are exempt from these commandments, they cannot recite a blessing that contains the words "Who has sanctified us... and commanded us." To do so, in the Sephardic view, would be to utter a blessing in vain (berachah levatalah), as they were not literally commanded by God to perform this specific act.

This ruling is often misunderstood by outsiders as an exclusion of women, but within the lived experience of Sephardic and Mizrahi communities, it is understood as an act of profound theological precision and linguistic integrity.

On Rosh HaShana, Sephardic women gather in the synagogue with immense devotion. They do not stand as passive observers; they are active participants in the spiritual drama of the day. The Ba'al Toke'ah (the shofar blower) sounds the notes with intense focus. The women stand in majestic, focused silence. They do not recite the blessing over the shofar, nor does anyone recite it on their behalf if they are blowing it for themselves.

Instead, they offer their hearts in silent, unadorned prayer, letting the raw, piercing sound of the ram's horn wash over them. This practice emphasizes a direct, unmediated connection to the divine sound, free from the necessity of liturgical formulas where they do not technically apply. It is a beautiful expression of the Sephardic path: a balance of rigorous halakhic truthfulness with deep, emotional, and mystical participation.

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Contrast

To appreciate the texture of Sephardic and Mizrahi practice, it is helpful to place it alongside other traditional Jewish practices. We do this not to establish superiority, but to celebrate the rich, multi-colored tapestry of rabbinic tradition.

The Blessing of Commandment vs. The Beauty of Voluntary Devotion

As noted above, the primary contrast regarding women and optional mitzvot lies in the recitation of the blessing.

• The Ashkenazi Practice: Ashkenazi women recite the blessing over time-bound mitzvot such as Shofar, Lulav, and Sukkah. The philosophical underpinnings of this custom, as developed by the Tosafists and later codified by the Rema, suggest that since women receive spiritual reward for performing these mitzvot, and since the Jewish people as a collective was commanded, any individual who voluntarily joins in the action can legitimately say "Who has commanded us." The focus is on the subjective experience of joining the covenantal community in action.
• The Sephardi and Mizrahi Practice: Following the Rambam and Maran Yosef Karo, Sephardic women perform these mitzvot with great love and devotion, but they do not recite the blessing. The philosophical focus here is on objective truth and linguistic precision. The word v'tzivanu ("and He commanded us") must represent a literal, halakhic obligation incumbent upon the specific individual reciting it. To say "He commanded me" when He did not is seen as a compromise of the absolute integrity of speech before God.

This difference does not represent a divide in piety, but rather two distinct, holy paths of relating to the divine command: one through the subjective elevation of voluntary action, and the other through the objective sanctification of precise speech.

Smoothness and Integrity: The Halakhic Architecture of Chalak

Another beautiful contrast lies in the laws of shechitah (ritual slaughter) and the definition of what makes an animal kosher. This connects directly to the debate in Chullin 85a:10 regarding shechitah she'einah re'uyah (slaughter that is not fit to permit the animal for consumption).

The Gemara asks:

"What is the reason that Rabbi Meir holds that ineffective slaughter is considered an act of slaughter in the case of a mother and its offspring?"

To understand this, let us look at the commentary of Rabbeinu Gershom on Chullin 85a:4:

מה התם שחיטה שאינה ראויה שמה שחיטה. כלומר שחוטי חוץ שחיטה שאינה ראויה היא וקרי ליה שחיטה

"Just as there, a slaughter that is not fit is called slaughter. That is to say, sacrificial animals slaughtered outside the Temple are an unfit slaughter [since they are forbidden for benefit], yet the Torah calls it slaughter."

In the Sephardic halakhic tradition, the definition of a valid slaughter is incredibly stringent, particularly regarding the lungs of the animal. This is the origin of the term Chalak (literally "smooth"), commonly known as Glatt in the Ashkenazic world, though the two systems have historically differed in their definitions.

• The Sephardic Standard (Chalak / Beit Yosef): Following the strict rulings of the Rambam and Maran Yosef Karo, Sephardic halakha dictates that if there is any adhesion (sircha) on the lungs of a domesticated animal, the animal is rendered a tereifa (non-kosher), even if the adhesion can be peeled away or is very small. The lungs must be completely smooth—chalak. There is no room for leniency or testing the adhesion under water to see if air escapes. This approach prioritizes absolute structural integrity and a literal reading of the physical signs of health.
• The Ashkenazic Standard (Glatt / Rema): The Ashkenazic tradition historically adopted a more lenient approach based on the rulings of the Rema. If an adhesion is found on the lung, a trained examiner may carefully peel or massage it. If, after removing the adhesion, the lung is tested under water and no air bubbles escape (proving there is no hole in the lung wall), the meat is declared kosher and even "Glatt" according to Ashkenazic standards.

This halakhic divergence highlights how each community approaches the physical world. The Sephardic path seeks a clear, uncompromised boundary—either the lung is smooth, or it is not. This mirrors the discussion in the Talmud about whether an unfit slaughter is conceptually called "slaughter."

To deepen our understanding of this conceptual divide, we can look at the brilliant analytical commentary of the Dor Revi'i (Rabbi Moshe Shmuel Glasner) on Chullin 85a:2:1-2. The Dor Revi'i analyzes why Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi chose to rule like Rabbi Meir in one case (the prohibition of "it and its offspring") and like Rabbi Shimon in another (covering the blood):

...דר״מ כרי״ש ס״ל, דבשר תאוה אתסר להו במדבר, ולדידי׳ השחיטה אינה מתרת איסור אבמה״ח... אבל ר״ש כר״ע ס״ל דבשר תאוה לא איתסר כלל ואדרבה בשר נחירה הותר להם במדבר, ונתחדשה ההלכה לאסור הנחירה ולקדשם במצות שחיטה...

"...For Rabbi Meir holds in accordance with Rabbi Yishmael, that meat of desire (non-sacred meat) was forbidden to them in the wilderness, and for him, the act of slaughter itself does not merely function to permit the prohibition of a limb from a living animal... But Rabbi Shimon holds in accordance with Rabbi Akiva, that meat of desire was never forbidden at all, and rather, stabbed meat was permitted to them in the wilderness, and the law was renewed to forbid stabbing and to sanctify them through the mitzvah of slaughter..."

The Dor Revi'i reveals that the debate between Rabbi Meir and Rabbi Shimon is not a mere disagreement over verses, but a profound philosophical inquiry into the very nature of shechitah. Is shechitah a physical act of killing that has been sanctified by the Torah (Rabbi Meir's view), or is it a transformative ritual whose entire definition is dependent on its success in permitting the meat for eating (Rabbi Shimon's view)?

The Sephardic tradition, by ruling strictly on Chalak meat, aligns with this search for absolute conceptual and physical alignment. The physical animal must mirror the spiritual ideal of perfect health and wholeness.

To illustrate this further, let us examine the commentary of the Ritva (Rabbi Yom Tov Asevilli of Seville, Spain) on Chullin 85a:3:

גמ' מאי טעמא דר"י באותו ואת בנו גמר משחוטי חוץ איכא למידק מה לשחוטי חוץ דא"א לעולם בשחיט' ראוי'... וי"ל דאפ"ה כיון דבגז"ש גמיר לה שפיר גמרי' מינה ואין אומרי' בזה שאין למדין אפשר משאי אפשר דסוף סוף הא קרי' רחמנא שחיט'...

"Gemara: What is the reason of Rabbi Yosei [Meir] regarding 'it and its offspring'—he derives it from sacrificial animals slaughtered outside. One might ask: What is unique about sacrificial animals slaughtered outside, where it is impossible for them ever to be fitly slaughtered [since they are outside]? ... But we answer that since we learn it via a verbal analogy, we derive it fully, and we do not say here that we cannot derive that which is possible from that which is impossible, because ultimately, the Merciful One calls it 'slaughter'..."

The Ritva, writing in medieval Spain, championing the classic Sephardic analytical method, shows that when the Torah uses the word "slaughter" (shechitah), the semantic reality of the word remains intact even when the physical outcome is compromised. This appreciation for the power of language and legal categories is a hallmark of Sephardic thought.

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Home Practice

The Sephardic and Mizrahi heritage is not a museum piece to be admired from afar; it is a living wellspring of practices that can enrich anyone's spiritual life. Here is one small, beautiful practice that anyone can adopt to bring the flavor of this tradition into their home.

The Silent Listen: Adopting Sephardic Mindfulness in Optional Mitzvot

The next time you perform a mitzvah in which you are not technically obligated, or when you participate in a communal ritual where you feel like an observer, try adopting the Sephardic practice of The Silent Listen.

For example, on Rosh HaShana, or when hearing the Shofar blown at any time:

1. Relinquish the Formula: Instead of rushingly reciting a blessing or searching for a prayer book to find the "right" words, consciously choose to remain silent before the act.
2. Focus on the Raw Sound: Close your eyes and allow the physical sound of the Shofar—or the visual beauty of the ritual—to fill your consciousness.
3. Cultivate Inner Presence: Remind yourself that your exemption from the formal obligation does not diminish your connection; rather, it frees you to experience the mitzvah as a pure, voluntary gift of love.

By stepping back from the verbal formula of command (v'tzivanu) when it does not literally apply, you create a space of absolute honesty and deep, meditative presence. This is the essence of Sephardic mindfulness: honoring the boundaries of the law while letting the soul sing in the silence between the notes.

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Takeaway

The Sephardic and Mizrahi approach to Chullin 85a teaches us that our relationship with the Divine is found in the precise navigation of life's transitions and uncertainties. Whether we are dealing with the koy—the creature of the twilight—or the silent, powerful devotion of women hearing the Shofar, this tradition invites us to bring our entire sensory being to the service of God. Through the melodies of the shochetim, the celebration of the earth in kisuy hadam, and the theological honesty of our blessings, we learn that the physical world is not an obstacle to holiness, but the very dust through which the soul is covered, protected, and redeemed.