Dvir and Shalhevet Cahana
- The Two Sections – Hilkheta and Aggadeta
The Talmud consists of two genres – Halakhah, referring to legal discourse, and Aggadah,[1] consisting of narrative and homiletic teachings. The two are entirely different. Hilkheta is a record of rabbinic conversation: their debates around the Mishnah’s law, reconciling seemingly contradictory beraitot with the mishnayot, or better understanding an amora’s view. In contrast, Aggadeta consists of the stories about those very rabbinic figures living their holy yet complex lives.[2]
Hilkheta portions resemble Socratic seminars, a structured debate with specific nexus words to cue for the question types and answers. To understand the debates, one must have a command of a rather extensive amount of material: the concepts that compose the debate itself, fluency in classical commentaries like Rashi and Tosafot with their unique typeset, integrating those commentaries back into the primary text of the Talmud’s conversation, then understanding how the discourse eventually weaves into the final law in the works of Rambam and Shulhan Arukh. It is a high threshold. Thus, when the learner successfully derives a hiddush (innovative insight), it is rather difficult but rewarding in the genre of Hilkheta.
Hikheta is deliciously engaging and compelling, especially for the intellectual elite.[3] Still, the intellectualism has a price: a heart can wither in the desert of raw discourse – thus, Aggadah then becomes a welcome oasis. In the kaleidoscope of rabbinic brilliance, the stone is Hilkheta and the sparkle is the Aggadeta.
This is also demonstrated through the assumed derivatives of the learning. The purpose of Hilkheta is to plumb into the depths of Halakhah – its rationales, applications, and limits. Although the Talmud will rarely conclude with the final law, nevertheless, the very redaction and publishing of the Talmud – a record of conversation about Halakhah – serves as the source text from which rabbis analyze and mine for their eventual halakhic conclusions. Sure, inherent in the legal discussion are the profound philosophies that instruct for a life well lived – but it is disingenuous to purport that philosophy is the Talmud’s essential purpose.
Aggadeta, by contrast, is a story, and therefore more accessible, especially for the uninitiated, explicit with moral lessons meant to be readily understood. For example – while endless folios have Hilkheta discourse about the laws of repentance, just one story spanning only a few lines – of Elazar ben Dordayah sleeping with countless prostitutes then begging for teshuvah until he weeps himself to death – is a story that effortlessly demonstrates the law and ethos with immediacy and efficacy. Phrased differently, the tales of Aggadeta explicitly impart ethics and moral complexity, and should be read for the same reasons why humanity enjoys stories – imagination, inspiration, creativity, and moving our hearts.
Overwhelmingly, the Talmud is composed of Hilkheta; only a small percentage is Aggadeta. The stories are embedded into the legal discourse; the result is an interwoven experience of legal discourse with spurts of stories. Given this integration, I wonder: what is the purpose of blending them together? The redactors of the Talmud were surely aware of the consumption experience they were creating, were they not?
This essay posits a seemingly tame claim that is actually quite novel: Aggadeta is a form of Midrash Halakhah, demonstrating and elucidating the Mishnah and Talmud’s laws. Thus, it is the combined and linear study of the entire Hilkheta with the Aggadeta that illuminates the Aggadeta’s essential meaning.
Applying a range of aggadic methodologies, including my own, this essay will analyze the narrative of Tanur shel Akhnai (The Oven of Akhnai), a tale central to Jewish thought.
- The Traditional Approach to Aggadah
It is most common to learn Aggadah in one of two extremes.
One extreme (which is rare) is to learn Aggadeta alone, without any of the surrounding Hilkheta. In a vacuum, the story begins and ends, regardless of whatever conversation ensconces it. I often see this learning style either in one of two poles. Either the learner is in an introductory class, where teachers whet the palette for Talmud study with an inviting story, and cannot grasp much beyond it, or, in contrast, a scholar whose expertise lies in analysis, and will focus on the story alone.
The other extreme (which is most common) is to do the opposite – learn Hilkheta alone without any Aggadeta. Actually, in Rif’s editing and condensing of the Talmud’s conversation, he excludes Aggadeta altogether because there is no legal purpose to the stories (except on rare occasion).[4] This editorial choice only underscores how distinct Aggadeta is from the rest of the Talmud’s corpus: complete removal indicates that it could be removed as a chunk, separate from the Hilkheta portion!
Nevertheless, there are times when the traditional learner does read the Aggadah, such as when learning about the Tanur shel Akhnai. What is their approach?
The traditional learner begins the story with the machloket (disagreement) between the Hakhamim and Rabbi Eliezer. The former claims that an oven is tahor (pure) and the latter claims that the same oven is tamei (impure). Exasperated, after attempting “all the answers in the world,” Rabbi Eliezer posits that if the halakhah is like his view, then various miracles should occur, indicating God’s tacit approval. Indeed, after beckoning them, a tree moved, water flowed upstream, the walls of the beit midrash began to cave – but still the Rabbis would not budge. Eventually, their fight escalated, climaxing with God declaring Rabbi Eliezer to be correct, only to then have Rabbi Yirmiyah respond that God’s own voice bears no relevance in the face of a majority of sages who interpret differently. A key line in the narrative is “Lo ba-shamayim hi,” meaning, “The Torah is not in heaven!” but rather in the hands of humans to interpret as they will. The tale ends with Elijah’s intercession, delivering a message of God chuckling, ‘My children have bested me,’ indicating God’s approval of the Rabbis.This is the traditionalist telling of the story.
Despite the irony that fallible human beings can even oust God from a discussion about God’s own work – the reason why this story is a cornerstone to the traditional Talmud learner is because it validates the very endeavor of rabbinic discourse. In undermining the voice of a bat kol (and, by extension, prophesy, or any other means of God’s direct intervention) – only human voices are relevant to rabbinic discourse.
Thus, an important legal principle and purpose emerges from this story: no longer God, but rather human discourse, determines the law – even when those very humans render the law incorrectly in God’s own eyes.[5] The Rabbis’ best effort is good enough for God, so it’s good enough for us.
This is to say, the traditional learner derives an ideological framework and philosophy to halakhic discourse from the story. That is the traditional approach.
- The Literary Method
The Modern Orthodox learner fuses two learning methods: traditional Torah learning and literary methods – word choice, alliteration, word play, chiasmus, and character analysis across tractates.
Sure, to the religious heart, Aggadeta is not a mere story like any other piece of literature such as the works of Shakespeare or Brontë – Aggadeta requires a sense of reverence appropriate for holy study in a beit midrash – however, these literary methods are valuable because they yield important insights.
Literary methods have been adopted and adapted to Tanakh learning decades ago. Beginning with Dr. Robert Alter’s The Art of Biblical Narrative, published in 1981, a multitude of Tanakh scholars today interpret it with many literary methods.
Consider the teachings of Dr. Yael Ziegler and Judy Klitsner, two well respected Tanakh scholars today who employ literary methods. For example, Judy Klitsner has shown a multitude of connections between the Noah and Jonah stories: both have a threat of Divine destruction because an entire society became evil – except that in the former the punishment lasted for 40 days, while in the latter the punishment was threatened to be meted out in 40 days; the two diverge in repentance itself – in the Noah story repentance is not possible, while in the Jonah story it is, thus indicating different ethos of Divine mercy. It is no surprise that Dr. Gila Fine, editor-in-chief of Maggid Books and educator at Pardes, then applies literary methods to studying Aggadeta.[6] This is to say, it is in vogue in Modern Orthodox circles to use these methods as the key to unlocking a biblical or rabbinic narrative’s meaning.
Consider here these insights to Tanur shel Akhnai derived through literary methods:
Regarding word choice, notice how the story begins with a debate about an oven that is “earthenware, cut into rings and sand placed between each ring.” Then, when the Talmud clarifies why this oven is called ‘an oven of Akhnai,’ Rabbi Yehudah says, “It means that they surrounded it with words like a snake [akhna], and declared it tamei.” Now consider Rashi’s commentary: “It is the way of a snake to make [itself] into a circle and insert [its] tail into [its] mouth.” Rashi is describing a ouroboros snake – a symbol representing the eternal cycle of destruction and rebirth.
Consider how this applies to the Oven of Akhnai itself: This is a story of rebirth in rabbinic literature – the exclusion of God’s intercession and the centering of the Rabbis themselves in the halakhic discourse.[7] Thus, the ouroboros snake type is no mere detail – it is a frame through which to understand the narrative that follows. Striking.
There is an additional symbolism to this oven: a hot container that transforms food is likened to a predatory snake devouring itself. Through this metaphor, the Rabbis encircle Rabbi Eliezer and use their words to symbolically strangle him to death. Further, the Rabbis become predatory and lethal perpetrators, self-destructing in devouring themselves through their abuse of Rabbi Eliezer. Ironic. This too is an insight derived from the word “akhnai.”
Now consider the character arc of Rabbi Eliezer and the Sages. Regarding Tanur shel Akhnai, Rabbi Eliezer is steadfast in his conviction about the oven’s status, refusing to cede to the Sages’ position. Perhaps the source of it came from a place of stubbornness, integrity, or both – but either way, he stands alone in the face of the rabbinic majority. He even resorts to invoking miracles to support the veracity of his view. The Sages are not compelled. He is eventually ostracized and experiences great pain as a result.
Is Rabbi Eliezer the hero of the story? Maybe. While he is a person of moral courage for his conviction, he is also dogmatic to the point of being a bother. His dissent and insistence were not only unnecessary – they were disproportionate; remember, it is just an oven. Why is he so adamant?
A literary approach to talmudic lore answers this question through considering Rabbi Eliezer’s behavior in other aggadetot; seeing them in conversation with each other can explain Rabbi Eliezer’s adamance.
Consider a parallel narrative in Sanhedrin 68a: the death of Rabbi Eliezer. In this story, too, Rabbi Eliezer opposes his son in insisting that he must still wear his tefillin (phylacteries) much like how, in Tanur shel Akhnai, he opposes the rabbinic majority about the oven’s purity.[8]
The story opens on Friday afternoon, before Shabbat, while, on his deathbed, Rabbi Eliezer’s son attempted to remove his father’s phylacteries (to protect him from transgressing the rabbinic law against wearing tefillin on Shabbat and holidays). Rabbi Eliezer adamantly insists that, instead, his son and wife maintain their focus on Shabbat preparations (preventing them from transgressing a biblical law, inherently of greater importance). Upon seeing his logic, the Sages sit by his bed, albeit four cubits away, because they had previously ostracized him in the Akhnai narrative.
They ask him various questions about the purity and impurity of various items including a ball, a last, an amulet, a pearl pouch, and a small weight. It is striking how both narratives center around an item’s purity status.
He then laments how his own wisdom and knowledge had not been fully appreciated by his students. This is not boasting. It is grief. This is underscored by the Sages themselves – only coming to him, albeit at a physical and spiritual distance – when it is too late: he is languishing on his deathbed.
Thus, in the Sanhedrin narrative as well, we see Rabbi Eliezer intuitively disagreeing with others and speaking almost brazenly in their presence.
A second similarity between the narratives lies in Rabbi Eliezer’s capacity to appeal or access the supernatural. In the Akhnai narrative, he beckons nature to change course (water moving upstream, etc.) Here, by his deathbed, he is able to accurately predict Rabbi Akiva’s martyrdom, a painful death.
His adamance in the Tanur shel Akhnai narrative was not an exceptional occurrence; it reflects his fundamental, uncompromising approach to truth. This is to say, this is an inherent trait, rather than a reactionary state, for Rabbi Eliezer.
This is all to say, a literary method is quite effective at deriving insight as well.
- The Rubenstein Approach
Rabbi Dr. Jeffrey Rubenstein, a professor at NYU’s Skirball Department of Hebrew and Judaic Studies, is known for an innovative approach to aggadic analysis: read Aggadeta in conversation with the surrounding Hilkheta. In zooming out from the text to its context,[9] Rubenstein enables a more robust and, most importantly, a more accurate reading, because it is internally coherent with the story’s presentation within the Talmud’s text itself.[10]
So, whereas the traditional reader began the story at Rabbi Eliezer and the Sage’s disagreement, Rubenstein considers the mishnah (Bava Metzia 58b) and the two amudim (folios) of Hilkheta discussion preceding the unfolding of the essential Akhnai narrative (as described above).
What is the topic of these folios? The mishnah and subsequent gemara consist of laws, teachings, and examples about ona’at devarim (verbal abuse). Thus, the aggadeta of Tanur shel Akhnai is merely one of many vignettes about this mitzvat lo ta’aseh (negative command) – with the Akhnai narrative being an ironic transgression of it, because it is rabbis themselves who are transgressing the law![11]
Rubenstein expands the story’s endpoint as well. Most learners end their learning of the story with God’s iconic statement: “My children have won against me!”[12] Yet, Rubenstein ends the story much later; he considers the many lines that follow – where Rabbi Elizer is heartbroken over being outcast to the point that his prayers inadvertently lead to the death of Rabban Gamliel.
Seen in this light, the Sages come across as a mob of bullies who harass and belittle Rabbi Eliezer to the point of making him a pariah – all while making themselves, ironically, into the villains of the story and transgressors of ona’at devarim. Sure, it might have been annoying that Rabbi Eliezer was so inflexible – but respectful discourse should never spin this far out of control, to the point of putting Rabbi Eliezer into heirem (religious sanction) and being outcast from the community. Certainly this is so when disagreeing about something as mundane as a weird oven’s purity status.
Thus, Rubenstein’s reading leads to the painful and even more ironic conclusion: the purpose of the Akhnai narrative is not to support the rabbinic endeavor but, rather, to question rabbinic power.
Rubenstein’s method is groundbreaking. He demonstrated how reading the Aggadeta with the surrounding Hilkheta shows a relational theme; this alone created a cradle for rich discourse, causing a wholly new interpretation of the narrative. Typically, when studying any text, the learner will emphasize the parts that they deem most important – thus resulting in ‘peak sections’ commanding the majority of one’s attention, contrasted to ‘valleys’ that don’t get much attention at all. But Rubenstein gives even-handed attention to both. In doing this, he shows how the text’s presentation is itself a frame to interpretation: one cohesive whole.
Despite this, Rubenstein’s method contains a weakness: it flattens the Aggadeta, shoehorning it into the flow from the mishnah and gemara surrounding it. Rubenstein relies on the Talmud redactor’s themed thread, the coalescing of the story, and surrounding legal discourse. In this way, the Rubenstein method ironically simplifies the Aggadeta.
- The Cahana Method of Learning Aggadah
My own method of learning Aggadeta mines for even deeper insights from the juxtaposition of Hilkheta and Aggadeta.
I read aggadetot as Midrash Halakhah – an interpretive method for rabbis to derive law from biblical and rabbinic text. Thus, these stories are both a demonstration and interpretation of halakhic ideas that inspired them.
Allow me to demonstrate with the case study of Tanur shel Akhnai. The first step in this method is a careful reading of the mishnah and gemara – just as I would when engaging in any Hilkheta learning – beginning with the mishnah. Then, in the gemara, I re-read the mishnah for deeper understanding (depending on the gemara’s questions on it). I then carry the mishnah and gemara’s conversation with me as I continue onto the Aggadeta – using the Hilkheta as a lens to interpret the Aggadah that follows. Let me demonstrate this in the Aggadeta of Tanur shel Akhnai.[13]
Consider the mishnah’s title and the following three clauses that begin the discourse (Bava Metzia 58b):
- Title: Just as there is ona’ah [fraud] in buying and selling, so too, there is ona’ah [abuse] with words.
- First Case: Therefore, one should not ask another, ‘What is the price of this item?’ if he has no intention to buy.
- Second Case: If someone was a ba’al teshuvah (someone who has returned to Torah observance after not having been observant), one should not say to him, ‘Remember your past actions.’
- Third Case: If he was a son of converts, one should not say to him, ‘Remember the actions of your ancestors,’ because it states: ‘You should not cause pain to a stranger, and you should not oppress him’ (Shemot 22:20).
Regarding the title, the mishnah makes an astonishing claim: verbal abuse and financial abuse are equivalent. The mishnah accomplishes this merely with the word “kakh,” meaning “so too.” Inherent in this is a profound idea: verbal abuse is no less painful or harmful than financial abuse.
When does speech transgress the prohibition of verbal abuse? Without a specific metric to cover the scope of all human interactions, the mishnah presents three scenarios to demonstrate ona’at devarim. The thrust of the three cases is: it is rather simple to transgress this sin.
Regarding the first case being thematically connected to the tractate’s topic of commerce, if one asks for the cost of an item, they imply their interest to the shopkeeper even if their heart feels otherwise. The shopkeeper’s disappointment is inevitable; he will wonder why an interested customer did not purchase. The shopper causing disappointment is ona’at devarim.[14] This is the first case.
Regarding the second case, after investing the significant effort to change one’s lifestyle to Torah and mitzvot observance in becoming a ba’al teshuvah, it is up to that person to decide if, or how, he chooses to disclose the previous chapters of his life. For some, it could bring feelings of pride to tell others of their religious progress; for others, it could evoke feelings of shame and embarrassment to recall their sinful past. Worse, reminding a ba’al teshuvah of their past insinuates that others still perceive them through that identity, no matter how much time has passed, no matter how intentionally they have left that identity behind. Causing this pain is ona’at devarim.
And finally, regarding the third case, similar to the second – if someone reminds another of their parents’ behavior before converting – it is shaming them for their loved one’s previous life. Each child relates differently to their parents’ history – some might feel proud of their parents’ conversion.[15] But who is to say every child feels that way? Children are born into a reality and do not choose it. Shaming the child on behalf of their parents’ history is ona’at devarim.
Let us now read these four parts of the mishnah into the Aggadeta of Tanur shel Akhnai.
The baraita with the mahloket between the Sages and Rabbi Eliezer editorialized, “and this is the oven of Akhnai.” The Gemara, commenting on the baraita, then asks: “Why is it called the oven of Akhnai?” The Gemara answers: “Rabbi Yehudah said that Shmuel said: It means that they surrounded it with arguments [literally: words] like a snake [akhna], and declared it tamei.”
The framing of the Tanur shel Akhnai story is the image of a snake squeezing the oven. Given that the Rabbis later burned all of the vessels Rabbi Eliezer had declared pure, this debate eventually led to the implosion of the very oven that began the conversation. Seen in conversation with the mishnah, the Hakhamim crossed the line into ona’at devarim, verbal abuse.
When the story begins, Rabbi Eliezer first attempts every answer in the world, but the Rabbis do not accept any of them. Exasperated, Rabbi Eliezer then invokes the supernatural – first having a tree move a significant distance. The Rabbis respond to it with this retort: “A proof cannot be brought from a carob tree.”
But this is not the full truth. The issue is not the tree. The issue is that it is a miracle. Not understanding this, Rabbi Eliezer becomes increasingly grandiose in the miracles – eventually leading to a voice from God Himself! The reality is, though, that the Rabbis are never going to budge on their opinion – miracles or not. Had I been Rabbi Eliezer, I would have been devastated that nothing, truly nothing, could effectuate a change in changing their views.
This kind of goading is precisely what the mishnah was referring to in its first case of the shopper and the shopkeeper. Just like the shopper was never going to buy the item – the Rabbis are never going to “buy” Rabbi Eliezer’s opinion. No matter what the shopkeeper would do to entice the buyer, no matter what tactics Rabbi Eliezer uses to convince the Rabbis – it was fruitless from the start. Just as it is abusive to give the wrong impression to the shopkeeper, so too, it is abusive for the Rabbis to give Rabbi Eliezer the impression that they can be swayed. It causes the shopkeeper and the minority rabbi alike to feel pain, and that is ona’at devarim.
Eventually, the Rabbis summarily excise him. Who would break the news? Rabbi Akiva offers, lest someone else were to go instead and cause greater pain to Rabbi Eliezer when telling him of his exclusion.
This matches with the second case of the mishnah. Notice how Rabbi Akiva is, himself, a ba’al teshuvah – someone who only learned the Alef Bet at age forty – and thereby empathizes with the experience of being an outsider. As Rabbi Akiva himself offers to go – this only comes to highlight how, even after all the years of being an acclaimed Torah scholar, his past experience as being an outsider is precisely why he was chosen for this role.[16] The mishnah clearly stated that this could be painful to the point of being verbally abusive.
And, to no one’s surprise, Rabbi Eliezer is distraught when he hears the news. One of the supernatural effects of this anger is a huge storm that targets the sea where Rabban Gamliel is traveling. Notice carefully how Rabban Gamliel realizes the source of the storm: “It appears to me that this is only because of Rabbi Eliezer ben Horkenus.” This is the very first time in the entire narrative that Rabbi Eliezer’s father is mentioned; every other time he is only called by his first name, ‘Rabbi Eliezer.’
Then notice Rabban Gamliel’s prayer: “It is revealed and known to You that I have not acted for my honor, and not for the honor of my father’s house, but for Your honor, so that strife shouldn’t increase in Yisrael!” Rabban Gamiliel does not merely say that he had pure intentions to decrease mahloket – rather, he hedges his words on not being an honor for his father’s house. Why mention his father?
The answer is linked now, chronologically, to the mishnah’s third case! There we are told that reminding another of their father’s past choices is verbally abusive. Consider Rabbi Eliezer’s father[17] – he was in the working class and not supportive of Rabbi Eliezer becoming a talmid hakham. In contrast, Rabban Gamliel came from a long lineage of Nesi’im – heads of the Sanhedrin court – a position of power and prestige, but also a position of proximity to the beit midrash. Would Rabban Gamliel still have invoked his father had he been from a lower class too? No, it was a subversive way of boosting his ego, making himself feel superior over Rabbi Eliezer, a new outcast who came from a weaker class anyway. Phrased differently, Raban Gamliel’s invoking of his father and Rabbi Eliezer’s father was surreptitious – and transgressed the third clause of the mishnah.
What we see is the mishnah’s laws demonstrated literarily through the story of Tanur shel Akhnai; thus the mishnah serves as a guiding lens for interpreting the gemara and Aggadeta that follows.
- Summary and Conclusion
In sum, this essay considered a number of approaches to studying Aggadetah broadly and, specifically, the story of Tanur shel Akhnai. We saw how a traditionalist derived the meaning of rabbinic discourse, we examined how the literary learner derived meaning from the language of ‘Akhnai’ itself and Rabbi Eliezer’s development arc, and we studied Rubenstein’s method, reading the narrative in conversation with the surrounding Hikheta text.
It is the careful analysis of how the Aggadah demonstrates the laws beforehand that makes this approach deliciously innovative. In my method, there is a necessity to study the full Hilkheta in concert with the Aggadeta – thus creating a masterful symphony. In learning how the two can infer insights fluidly between each other, we see how to elevate the meaning and import of the entire section. Cherishing the fullness of the text – the Hilkheta with the Aggadeta – results in a holistic, and therefore innovative and compelling, read of the text from its start to its end. The analysis becomes complete.
[1] The terms Halakhah and Aggadah are freely interchanged with Hilkheta and Aggadeta (the Aramaic equivalent) throughout this essay.
[2] Some would go so far as to say subversive and even sacrilegious.
[3] So much so that some students in Korea learn Talmud in order to develop their capacity for nuanced, rigorous logic. See https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yAr5-q3fDq0.
[4] Exceptions include: Sukkah 15a, s.v. “Rak bi-khetav yad”; Yoma 4a, s.v. “Ha-hi u-vera”; Rosh Hashanah 2b-3a; Megillah 9a.
[5] I heard this in the name of Rabbi Jesse Horn of Yeshivat HaKotel many years ago.
[6] Consider the multitude of times she utilizes literary methods in her book The Madwoman in the Rabbi’s Attic.
[7] I once learned this from a havruta years ago, and I am ashamed to say I don’t remember her name.
[8] I should add parenthetically – collapsing these narratives into one presents an arresting image – the coiling snake in Tanur shel Akhnai now coiling around Rabbi Eliezer’s arm as tefillin.
[9] I heard this phrasing in a class from Gila Fine when she was teaching Aggadeta years ago.
[10] For more on Rubenstien’s method broadly, and the treatment of the Akhnai story specifically, read his Talmudic Stories: Narrative Art, Composition and Culture (Johns Hopkins University Press, 1999).
[11] Miriam Gedwiser wrote a fabulous piece for Lehrhaus elucidating exactly this point.https://thelehrhaus.com/scholarship/if-your-wife-is-short-bend-down-and-hear-her-whisper-rereading-tanur-shel-akhnai/.
[12] Consider that “nitzahon” means victory, while “netzah” means eternity.
[13] I realized the following insights to Tanur shel Akhnai many years ago when I was learning in the Drisha Summer Kollel.
[14] I learned in the name of Rabbi Bennay Lappe that some commentaries also suggest that the shopkeeper might unnecessarily lower his prices, presuming that the shopper might have purchased had the price been lower, when, in reality, that was never going to be the case. The shopkeeper then unnecessarily lowers the price for someone who would have otherwise paid the full amount. This unnecessary loss of money is the fault of the first, dubious shopper.
[15] Much like Shlomo writing about his ancestor Ruth’s conversion to Judaism in Mishlei 31 – it was Ruth who was the original eishet hayil.
[16] It is also relevant that Rabbi Akiva appears in other talmudic narratives around mourning, for example, the last page in Ta’anit. As someone with deep sorrows and resilient strength, these are also traits that made Rabbi Akiva a great choice to talk to Rabbi Eliezer.
[17] Avot de-Rabbi Natan 6. https://www.sefaria.org/Avot_DeRabbi_Natan.6.3?lang=bi&with=all&lang2=en.
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