Zevachim 60

Hook – The Geometry of Absence

Tonight, we meet in the sacred space of remembrance, gathered around the memory of a life that was a central pillar in our world.

There are times in grief when it feels as though the entire structure of our life has been compromised. The routine, the joy, the meaning—all were anchored to that one person, that central presence. When they are gone, the resulting absence is not merely a hole; it is a structural failure. We turn to the Talmud, a tradition built on rigorous measurement and definition, to help us understand this profound spiritual architecture of loss.

Our text today, from Tractate Zevachim (Sacrifices), grapples with the geometry of holiness. The Sages debate the precise dimensions of the Altar (the Mizbe’ach)—its height, its width, and whether the surrounding Courtyard floor (Azarah) inherits its sanctity. This seems like a technical discussion of ancient Temple rites, but it offers a startlingly precise metaphor for the sacred spaces we build around the people we love.

The most poignant moment in the text comes when the Sages consider what happens when the central structure—the Altar—is broken. Rabbi Elazar teaches that if the Altar is damaged (Mizbe’ach shenifgam), certain consecrated offerings can no longer be eaten, even though the eating usually happens elsewhere in the Courtyard. The rule is derived from the verse: “And eat it without leaven beside the altar… Rather, [the verse means] one may eat the meal offering only at a time when [the altar] is complete, but not at a time when it is lacking (lo bizman shehu chaser).”

This phrase—not at a time when it is lacking—captures the core dilemma of grief. When the Altar of our life, the physical and spiritual anchor of our beloved, is damaged or missing, how can we access the "remainder of the meal offering"—the remaining joy, the remaining purpose, the remaining connections that still exist in the surrounding Courtyard of our life?

The debate between Rabbi Yehuda and Rabbi Yosei, concerning whether the entire Courtyard is consecrated or only the Altar itself, allows us to explore two primary modes of coping with loss:

The Pervasive Presence (Rabbi Yehuda’s View)

Rabbi Yehuda suggests that the initial act of consecration was so powerful that the entire floor of the Temple Courtyard was consecrated and could potentially function as an altar. If we apply this to grief, it offers hope that the holiness of the beloved is not confined to one focal point (the body, the presence) but saturates the entire shared space—the home, the routines, the memories. Even if the primary altar is gone, the ground beneath our feet is still sacred.

The Localized Center (Rabbi Yosei’s View)

Rabbi Yosei argues that the courtyard was only sanctified in order to stand the altar in it. Holiness is localized and dependent on the structural integrity of the center. If we adopt this view, grief becomes an architectural task: we must acknowledge the fundamental hissaron (lack/damage) and find a new way to stand a focal point of meaning, even if it is "too small" compared to what was lost.

Our ritual today is not about rebuilding the Altar exactly as it was. It is about honoring the lack while affirming that the ground upon which we stand remains consecrated. We seek to define the new dimensions of our sacred space, navigating the challenge of living a life that is fundamentally changed, yet still deeply meaningful.

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Text Snapshot

The following lines capture the Talmudic concern with measurement, boundary, and the impact of structural integrity on holiness.

Measurement and Visibility

The Sages debate the height of the Altar and the surrounding curtains:

And according to Rabbi Yehuda, who maintains that the altar was three cubits high and the curtains surrounding the courtyard of the Tabernacle were five cubits high, isn’t the priest visible while performing the service atop the altar? The Gemara answers: Granted, the priest is visible, but the items with which he performs the sacrificial service that are in his hand are not visible. (Zevachim 60a, https://www.sefaria.org/Zevachim_60a.10)

Ritual Reflection: This speaks to the visibility of grief. People may see us—the "priest"—performing the service of daily life, but they rarely see the sacred, tender items we carry in our hands—the unspoken memories, the quiet pain.

The Problem of Being "Too Small"

The text addresses King Solomon’s realization that the original copper altar built by Moses was inadequate for the volume of offerings:

But according to Rabbi Yehuda, who maintains that its surface area was ten cubits by ten cubits, what is the meaning of the phrase “too small”? The Gemara answers: The verse is referring to the altar built by Solomon, and this is what it is saying: The stone altar that Solomon built in place of the copper altar built in the time of Moses was too small to accommodate the large quantity of offerings. (Zevachim 60a, https://www.sefaria.org/Zevachim_60a.13)

Ritual Reflection: Sometimes, the altar of memory we try to build feels "too small" to hold the enormity of the life lived and the love shared. Grief demands a vast space.

The Condition of Completeness (Hissaron)

Rabbi Elazar presents the radical ruling on structural integrity:

Rabbi Elazar says: In the case of an altar that was damaged, one may not eat the remainder of a meal offering on its account, as it is stated: “Take the meal offering…and eat it without leaven beside the altar; for it is most holy” (Leviticus 10:12)... Rather, the verse means that one may eat the meal offering only at a time when the altar is complete, but not at a time when it is lacking. (Zevachim 60a, https://www.sefaria.org/Zevachim_60a.14)

Ritual Reflection: This is the heart of the matter. We must decide if we will accept the challenge of this "lacking" structure, or if we will find a way to sanctify the ground again, allowing us to consume the "remainder" of life’s blessings despite the damage.

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Kavvanah – The Intention of Consecrated Ground

The intention (kavvanah) we hold during this ritual is to move from paralyzing recognition of hissaron (lack) to the gentle affirmation of kodesh (holiness) that endures. We intend to acknowledge the structural damage caused by grief while committing to the ongoing sanctity of our own life and the memory we carry.

The Altar and the Heart

In the Temple structure, the Altar was the place where the profane met the sacred, where human effort intersected with divine acceptance. In our personal architecture of meaning, the beloved often functions as our Altar—the focal point where our deepest intentions, our sacrificial love, and our hopes were centered.

When that Altar is gone, we experience a profound disorientation. The text asks: If the Altar is damaged, is the entire system of service halted? Rabbi Elazar suggests yes—the remainder of the meal offering may not be eaten on its account. This is the feeling in early, raw grief: the simplest acts of nourishment, joy, or connection feel forbidden because the central structure that validated them is gone. The intention we hold must first give space to this initial, honest refusal. It is permissible, for a time, to feel that life’s remaining blessings are "disqualified" by the damage.

The Geometry of Grief (Middot)

The Talmud is obsessed with middot (measurements). These measurements define the boundaries of holiness. In grief, we are forced to re-measure our world. The world that was once measured by the presence of the loved one must now be measured by their absence.

Consider the debate over the visibility of the priest atop the altar. Rabbi Yehuda suggests that even if the priest is visible (our external, public performance of coping), the items of the service (the true, tender contents of our heart) are not visible.

• A Guided Reflection on Visibility: Close your eyes and notice the boundary between your inner and outer self today. Where does your grief feel visible to the world? Where does it feel hidden? Perhaps your outer self is the "curtain" that is five cubits high, concealing the deepest, most sacred work you are performing. Hold the intention to honor both the visible (the strength you show) and the invisible (the sacred service of mourning you perform privately). The most profound work of memory often happens in the unseen space, where only you and the memory reside. Allow that invisible work to be exactly the size it needs to be—ten cubits by ten cubits, or three cubits high—without judgment. The measurements shift, but the consecration remains.

Consecrating the Courtyard Floor (Kodesh)

The most hopeful reading of Zevachim 60 is the view that the entire Courtyard floor (Azarah) retains its sanctity. Even if the Altar is physically damaged or removed, the ground where the service occurred is still sacred space. This speaks to the enduring legacy of the person we lost.

The kavvanah here is to shift our focus from the missing structure to the consecrated ground. The person’s life, love, and impact were so pervasive that they sanctified everything they touched. Their holiness is not confined to their physical form, but permeates the shared history, the lessons learned, and the people they shaped.

• A Guided Reflection on Pervasive Sanctity: Imagine the presence of your beloved as a deep, radiating heat that once centered at the Altar. Now, visualize that heat seeping into the very foundations of the Courtyard—your home, your relationships, your personal values.
  • Where in your life do you still feel the residual heat of their love?
  • What mundane corner of your daily routine—a chair, a garden path, a specific time of day—feels unexpectedly holy because of them?
  • Hold the intention that you are allowed, even required, to find sustenance in this consecrated ground. Do not wait for a perfect, rebuilt Altar to access the blessings of your life. The Azarah is still holy.

Holding the Lacking (Hissaron)

The most challenging intention is to live with the lacking without demanding immediate restoration. Grief often compels us to try and fill the void immediately, often with distractions or premature closure. The text gently reminds us that if the Altar is chaser (lacking/incomplete), certain sustenance is disallowed.

This suggests that part of the ritual of deep grief is the intentional refusal of false comfort. We intentionally choose to sit with the hissaron. This is not denial of hope; it is the radical acceptance of reality. The structure is damaged.

• Intention of Acceptance: Hold the intention that the damage itself has sanctified this moment. The lack is not a failure of your memory or your spirit; it is the evidence of profound connection. We are not aiming for "healing" that obliterates the scar, but for a spaciousness that incorporates the wound. We allow the hissaron to exist as a measure of the kodesh that was. This acceptance, paradoxically, is what allows us to eventually consume the "remainder of the meal offering"—to taste joy, find purpose, and feel connection again—because we have redefined the terms of holiness to include incompleteness.

We hold the intention: May I recognize the consecrated ground beneath my feet, even as I honor the central, sacred structure that is now lacking.

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Practice – Rituals of Consecration and Measurement

To meet the challenge presented by Zevachim 60—how to maintain holiness when the altar is damaged—we engage in ritual practices that redefine boundaries, sanctify the remaining space, and carry the essence of the sacred forward.

The Practice of Re-Measurement: Defining the New Boundary

The Sages spend significant energy defining the middot (measurements) of the Altar and the Courtyard curtains. In grief, we need to redefine the boundaries of our new life, acknowledging the change in dimensions.

### Ritual 1: The Cubit of Sacred Space

This practice uses the Talmudic concern with physical measurement to establish a container for grief that is neither "too small" nor overwhelmingly vast.

The Context: The text debates whether the Altar was three cubits high or ten cubits high, and whether the surrounding curtains were five cubits higher than the Altar. These measurements dictate visibility and access. We apply this idea to our emotional boundaries.

The Method:

1. Identify Your Cubits: A cubit (ammah) is traditionally the length from the elbow to the tip of the middle finger, roughly 18-24 inches. Choose a physical object or space that represents the dimensions of your new life.

   • Example: If your grief feels overwhelming, you might define your sacred space as one cubit (18 inches) around your body—a small, manageable zone where you commit to breathing and being present.
   • Example: If you need to make the loss visible, you might define a boundary of five cubits (90 inches) around a memorial candle or photograph, declaring this area a "Courtyard of Remembrance," where tears and stories are permitted.

2. Define the Curtains (Boundaries): The curtains determined what was visible to the outside world. Write down three boundaries (your curtains) you need to enforce to protect your sacred service of mourning.

   • Example Boundary 1 (Height/Visibility): "I will only discuss the details of my loss with two trusted people this week." (This protects the service items in your hand from being too visible.)
   • Example Boundary 2 (Width/Time): "I will dedicate 30 minutes each day to unrestricted grief, and the rest of the day to navigating the consecrated ground of my life." (This defines the width of the altar space.)

3. The Intention of Height: The text noted that the priest was visible, but the service items were not. Stand in your defined space and reflect: I am visible, but the depth of my sacred service remains private and protected. This practice honors the need for both presence in the world and protected vulnerability in grief.

Spaciousness and Time (500-700 words target for this practice): This act of re-measurement is profoundly empowering because grief often makes us feel dimensionless—boundary-less, timeless, and formless. By engaging with the Talmud’s focus on precise middot, we reclaim a sense of control over the architecture of our pain. You are defining the shape of your sorrow, not letting the sorrow define you. If the three-cubit altar was deemed "too small," we recognize that our initial attempts to cope may also feel insufficient. We are allowed to expand the dimensions of our grief (to ten cubits, or more) without guilt, provided we clearly define those new borders. This ritual of spatial designation grounds the abstract pain of loss into concrete, manageable terms. It is the spiritual equivalent of placing survey stakes in shifting emotional ground, allowing us to affirm, "This space, within these defined boundaries, is dedicated to remembrance and healing, and here, I am safe to perform the work of my heart." The curtains we raise are not walls of denial, but sacred screens of protection, ensuring that the precious, fragile contents of our memory—the items of service—are not exposed to indifference or judgment. We acknowledge that the size of the hissaron (the lack) is immense, but by actively measuring the remaining kodesh (holiness), we prevent the loss from consuming all available space.

The Practice of Sanctifying the Ground: Finding Holiness in Routine

Rabbi Yehuda maintained that the entire Courtyard was consecrated, allowing the service to potentially take place anywhere. This practice focuses on finding the pervasive, enduring holiness of the beloved in the ordinary spaces of our post-loss life.

### Ritual 2: The Consecration of the Smallest Act

This ritual uses tzedakah (righteous giving) and light to consecrate a mundane action, transforming it into a moment of sacred service, regardless of the altar's condition.

The Context: Rava attempts to prove Rabbi Yehuda wrong by arguing that if the entire courtyard were consecrated, spilled blood wouldn't need to be poured onto the altar. The counter-arguments suggest that even if the ground is consecrated, we still strive for the optimal manner of service (mitzva min hamuvchar).

The Method:

1. Identify a "Spilled Moment": Think of a small, ordinary task you now do alone that you previously shared or that reminds you acutely of the loss (e.g., brewing coffee, locking the door, checking the mail). This routine is your "spilled blood" on the courtyard floor—a moment of everyday pain.
2. The Optimal Act (Mitzva min Hamuvchar): Choose a small act of tzedakah or kindness to perform immediately before or after this "spilled moment." This elevates the mundane moment into the "optimal" manner of service.
   • Example: Before brewing the coffee, write one sentence of encouragement to a friend, or donate $5 to a cause the deceased loved.
3. Light and Name: As you perform the tzedakah (the optimal act), light a small candle (or just pause and visualize light). Speak the name of the beloved aloud or internally, dedicating the merit of the small, sanctified act to their memory and legacy.
4. Affirmation: As you complete the routine task, affirm: This ground is consecrated. The holiness of your life makes even this small action sacred.

Spaciousness and Time (500-700 words target for this practice): This practice directly addresses the paralysis that occurs when the central mechanism of meaning (the Altar) is gone. By deliberately seeking mitzva min hamuvchar (the optimal deed) in the context of the ordinary, we are essentially saying: "Yes, the Altar is damaged, but the divine command to live a life of meaning still stands, and I will perform the best possible service on this consecrated ground, even if it is only a gesture." The concept of the "spilled moment" is crucial here. Grief ensures that many parts of our day feel like "spilled blood"—messy, wasted, or simply not right. Instead of trying to clean up the mess or ignore it, we use the act of tzedakah to re-consecrate the moment. The donation or kindness need not be large; its power lies in its intentional juxtaposition with the pain. It is a small, portable act of repair that reminds us that the vast, ten-cubit holiness of the life we lost lives on in the smallest, most accessible dimensions of goodness we can still enact. This practice refutes the notion that joy and purpose are reserved only for times of "completeness." It teaches us that holiness is resilient and can be derived from the dedication we bring to the remnants of our life.

The Practice of the Portable Vessel: Carrying the Legacy

Rabbi Yosei argues that the dimensions of the external altar should be derived from the dimensions of the inner incense altar—a portable vessel—rather than from the large, fixed Temple edifice. This suggests that holiness can be derived from what is portable and enduring, rather than what is static and fixed.

### Ritual 3: The Vessel of Memory

This practice focuses on identifying the essence of the beloved's life that is entirely portable and can be carried forward, regardless of geographic location or the destruction of physical structures.

The Context: The Sages debate whether we derive the law from a fixed structure (edifice) or a portable vessel. When we lose a loved one, their physical presence (the fixed structure) is gone. We must now focus on the "portable vessel" of their spirit.

The Method:

1. Identify the Vessel: Choose a small, non-sacrificial object that the deceased loved, used, or that embodies their core spirit (e.g., a specific pen, a worn stone, a favorite cooking utensil, a piece of music). This is your portable vessel of holiness.
2. Document the Essence: Write down 3-5 traits, values, or recurring pieces of advice that defined the person. These are the "dimensions" of the portable vessel.
3. The Teaching Moment: Commit to carrying the vessel or its dimensions with you physically or metaphorically for a set period (e.g., one week). When you encounter a challenge or a decision, consult the vessel by asking: "If [Name] were here, what dimension (trait/advice) would they offer to this moment?"
4. Embodiment: The act of carrying and consulting the vessel ensures that the holiness of their legacy is not lost when the central altar is damaged. It allows you to transform static memory into active, living wisdom.

Spaciousness and Time (500-700 words target for this practice): The concept of the portable vessel offers a powerful antidote to the feeling of being unmoored after loss. When the great, fixed Altar of their physical presence is destroyed, we must rely on the smaller, enduring sanctity we can carry with us. This is the difference between mourning what is gone (the edifice) and activating what remains (the vessel). By selecting a physical object—the portable vessel—and associating it not just with memory but with active wisdom, we ensure that the beloved’s influence continues to guide our choices. This is not mere sentimentality; it is a ritual technology for accessing ancestral guidance. Furthermore, the selection of 3-5 core traits or pieces of advice transforms the sprawling, overwhelming memory of a life into defined, actionable dimensions. It makes the enormity of the loss manageable by focusing on the enduring, essential spirit. When we encounter the world again, carrying this vessel, we are not simply survivors navigating a damaged courtyard; we are priests carrying the sacred tools of service, performing the ongoing work of legacy. This ritual validates the idea that even in the darkest land (as the Babylonians are accused of dwelling in), we can still carry a clear, defined halakha (path/way of being) derived from the enduring portable truth of the person we loved.

The Practice of Honoring the Lacking (Hissaron)

This final practice integrates Rabbi Elazar’s teaching: not at a time when it is lacking. Instead of trying to force completeness, we intentionally focus on the necessary pause that structural damage demands.

### Ritual 4: The Pause of Incompleteness

This is a ritual of structured, temporary withdrawal, recognizing that sometimes, the most sacred act is to simply stop and acknowledge the damage.

The Context: The text mentions that when the Tabernacle was dismantled for journeys, sacrificial food was disqualified from being consumed. The entire system had to pause because the altar was not in place.

The Method:

1. Identify the Disqualified Area: Pinpoint one activity or routine that feels particularly difficult or impossible right now because of the loss (e.g., a specific holiday tradition, a hobby you shared, visiting a particular location).
2. Declare the Pause: For a defined period (e.g., three months, until the next anniversary, or until you feel a gentle shift), intentionally "disqualify" this activity. Write this down formally: Because the Altar is lacking, I declare [Activity] disqualified for now. This pause is not a failure, but a sacred protection of my energy.
3. The Spaciousness of the Pause: Use the time freed up by this pause to simply rest or perform the least demanding act of self-care. Do not replace the disqualified activity with another demanding task.
4. The Gentle Return: When the period of disqualification ends, you have the choice to either redefine the activity (integrate the portable vessel) or continue the pause. The ritual is complete when you acknowledge that the integrity of the Altar (your emotional center) is more important than forced consumption of the "remainder."

Spaciousness and Time (500-700 words target for this practice): This ritual offers permission to step away from demands that feel unbearable. Grief demands patience and a profound respect for depletion. The Sages understood that when the central structure is disassembled, the entire system must stop. We often feel immense pressure in modern society to "keep going" or "get back to normal." This ritual offers the counter-cultural wisdom of the Talmud: when the Altar is damaged, it is not only permissible but required to pause consumption. By formally "disqualifying" a specific area of life, we transform a feeling of failure (I can’t do this) into a statement of sacred intention (I am choosing to pause this because my integrity requires it). This is a ritual of radical self-compassion, recognizing that the hissaron must be honored. It is the ritual equivalent of the priest stepping back from the service, acknowledging that the conditions for optimal engagement are not met. This allows the inner, invisible work of grief to continue unburdened by external performance, preparing the ground for eventual, authentic re-entry into life's full service.

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Community – The Mixed Cup of Support

In Zevachim 60, Rava introduces a fascinating concept regarding communal offering: on Passover eve, a priest would fill one cup with the blood of the many offerings that was now mixed together on the floor, and pour it on the altar. The purpose was to ensure that if any single offering’s blood had been spilled entirely, this mixed cup would still contain a trace of it, thereby rendering the offering fit.

This "mixed cup" is a perfect metaphor for communal grief and support. When we are grieving, our individual loss (our offering) can feel spilled and disqualified. Community functions as the mixed cup: a gathering of many imperfect, small acts of love and shared humanity, ensuring that even when our personal offering seems lost, we are still rendered "fit" and connected by the collective mix of compassion.

The Imperfection of the Mixed Cup

The text debates whether pouring this mixed cup on the floor (the consecrated ground) is sufficient, or if it must be poured on the Altar (the central structure). The answer suggests that while the ground is holy, we strive for the optimal action—pouring it on the Altar.

In human terms, this means that while the general goodwill of friends (the consecrated ground) is helpful, we must strive for the optimal form of support—specific, intentional acts poured directly into the heart of the need. We must be clear about our needs, and our community must be precise in their actions.

Offering Support: Pouring the Optimal Act

Move beyond the vague offer of the "consecrated ground" ("Let me know if you need anything") to the "optimal act."

### Concrete Actions of Optimal Support

1. Sanctifying Routine: Offer to take over a specific, repetitive, mundane task (a "spilled moment" from the grieving person’s life) for a defined period.
   • Example: "I know [Name] always handled the grocery shopping/pet care/lawn maintenance. I am taking over that specific service for the next month, no need to ask." (This sanctifies the ground of their daily life.)
2. The Gift of Visibility: Remember the priest who is visible while the service items are not. Offer a space for the "service items" to be visible, if the person chooses.
   • Sample Language: "I am here to listen without judgment. You don't have to be the strong priest performing the ritual; you can show me the service items in your hand."
3. Honoring the Lacking (Hissaron): Do not try to fill the void with platitudes or forced distractions. Acknowledge the gap.
   • Sample Language: "I know nothing can fill this space. I am only offering a small boundary of comfort around the edges of the lack."

Asking for Support: Defining the New Dimensions

When the Altar is damaged, the grieving person must define the new dimensions of their need. This requires courage and clarity.

### Sample Language for the Griever

1. Defining the Boundary (Middot): "I have very limited capacity right now. I can handle a 5-minute phone call or a text, but not a long visit. Please respect this cubit of space I need."
2. Identifying the Consecrated Ground: "I am finding it hard to sanctify my kitchen right now. Could you bring over one prepared meal on Tuesday, so I don't have to worry about that particular piece of ground?"
3. Requesting the Mixed Cup: "I am feeling disqualified from joy. I need a reminder of what the world looks like outside my grief. Could you share a funny, mundane story from your week? Just something small, to put a drop of your life into my mixed cup."

Spaciousness and Time (800-1200 words target for this section): The community section is vital because the Talmud often balances individual responsibility with communal structure. The metaphor of the mixed cup is a profound theological statement on mutual reliance. It asserts that our personal holiness (the fitness of our offering) is contingent upon the collective—that the small, imperfect drops of blood (acts of care) from everyone else ensure the validity of our own sacrifice. This refutes the isolating nature of grief, which often convinces the mourner that their pain is too unique or too heavy to share. By providing concrete language, we are providing the "measurements" necessary for safe social interaction. A grieving person often lacks the energy to translate abstract pain into actionable requests. By offering scripts like, "My altar is damaged, and I am only consuming the remainder of my joy within these defined boundaries," the mourner reclaims agency and uses the language of sacred architecture to explain their current state. Similarly, the community, often paralyzed by fear of saying the wrong thing, receives permission to act specifically—to pour the optimal act directly into the specified need. This ensures that the collective effort truly serves to re-consecrate the ground around the mourner, preventing the total collapse of their system of meaning, even when the central structure remains definitively lacking. The shared act of pouring the mixed cup is the ultimate validation that holiness is not lost; it has simply been redistributed and is now carried collectively.

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Takeaway + Citations

The deep dive into Zevachim 60 offers a language for grief rooted in architectural integrity and enduring sanctity. The primary lesson is that while the loss of a beloved life is a structural blow—a damaged and lacking altar—the holiness they imbued in the world does not vanish. It saturates the ground beneath our feet.

We are called to:

1. Honor the Hissaron: Acknowledge the profound lack without demanding immediate completeness.
2. Define the Middot: Set clear boundaries for our grief, protecting the "items of service" we carry internally.
3. Sanctify the Azarah: Find and affirm the consecrated ground—the pervasive, enduring meaning and love that remains in the routines and relationships of our life.
4. Carry the Portable Vessel: Transform static memory into active wisdom and legacy.

We leave this ritual knowing that even when the central pillar is gone, our life remains a place where sacred service is not only possible but required, sustained by the resilient holiness of the memory we carry.

Citations

Source Text	Sefaria Permalink
Zevachim 60a: The priest visible, service not visible	https://www.sefaria.org/Zevachim_60a.10
Zevachim 60a: The altar was "too small"	https://www.sefaria.org/Zevachim_60a.13
Zevachim 60a: The damaged altar (lacking)	https://www.sefaria.org/Zevachim_60a.14
Rashi on Zevachim 60a:13:2 (Eating beside the altar)	https://www.sefaria.org/Rashi_on_Zevachim.60a.13.2
Steinsaltz on Zevachim 60a:11 (Pouring by human force)	https://www.sefaria.org/Steinsaltz_on_Zevachim.60a.11
Steinsaltz on Zevachim 60a:12 (Mitzva min Hamuvchar)	https://www.sefaria.org/Steinsaltz_on_Zevachim.60a.12