Between the margins -2

BS’D

Shalom!

In something new and old, I’ll share the different meanderings my mind goes through while learning and meeting the Daf.

Nothing here I can testify as truth rather doses of medicine I feel helpful to myself in the moment.

Torah Tavlin and I am one of those that find themselves sick sometimes.

The Boy Who Swore He Didn’t Know

Once there was a boy who stood in a quiet room and made a silent oath.

No one heard him.
No one asked him.
But he swore anyway.

He swore he wasn’t special.
Swore he was too much.
Swore he was not enough.
Swore he didn’t know anything worth saying.
Swore he wasn’t really hurt — and even if he was, it didn’t matter.
He became very good at these kinds of oaths.
So good, he forgot they were made-up.

And the world — it believed him.
Because how could it not? He testified with his eyes, with his silence, with the way he sat at the edge of every room like a ghost waiting for permission to be real.

One day, a Teacher told him a story from an old, holy book.

About people who lied under oath — not just any oath, but ones about knowing the truth.

The Teacher explained, “There’s a kind of oath in the Torah called shevuat ha’edut—an oath about giving testimony. If someone swears they don’t know something, but they do, they’re only liable if it’s about something measurable, like money.” He pointed to the text, Daf 33, and continued, “Your promises—about your worth, your voice, your pain—they don’t count as sins in this way. The Torah doesn’t hold you guilty for those… not legally.”

The boy blinked. So his silent oaths, the ones that shaped his life, didn’t even matter in the eyes of the law? They weren’t “real” enough to count?

But then the Teacher leaned in, his voice softer, and said, “There’s more. In most Torah laws, you’re only held accountable for a sin if you didn’t know you were doing wrong. For example, if you became impure by accident, or broke Shabbat without realizing, or ate something forbidden unknowingly, you bring a sacrifice—a korban—only if the sin was hidden from you. The Torah calls this v’ne’elam—it was concealed—and then later revealed. That’s when you’re liable.”

The boy nodded slowly, listening.

“But here, in the case of testimony,” the Teacher continued, “it’s different. The Torah doesn’t say the truth was hidden. It says you knew. In Leviticus 5:1, it says, ‘If he knew and did not testify’—im yada—then he’s responsible. Not because he didn’t know, but because he did. And he still chose to stay silent.”

The Teacher paused, then looked at the boy with gentle clarity. “When you swear you’re not worthy, or that your voice doesn’t matter, or that you don’t belong—and deep down, you know that’s not true—that’s a kind of false oath. The Torah calls it shevuat shav, a vain oath. It’s not just a lie. It’s a lie you tell knowing the truth. And the Torah says you’re accountable for that.”

The boy blinked.

The boy’s breath caught in his throat.

It wasn’t about guilt. It was about what he’d always known, buried beneath his promises. He knew he was meant for more. He knew he was loved, even when no one said it. He knew he had songs to sing, fists to raise, tears to shed without hiding them behind laughter or silence.

He knew. But he had sworn he didn’t.

That day, something shifted.

It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t easy. His hands trembled as he faced the courtroom he’d built inside his heart—the one where he’d judged himself unworthy for so long. But he let that false testimony crumble.

He stepped into the light and spoke: “I lied. I swore I wasn’t worthy. I swore I was broken beyond repair. I swore I couldn’t be held. But I knew. I always knew.”

And in that moment, the boy—still scared, still raw—began to speak again. Not to prove anything. Not to perform. But to remember who he was. To be heard.

Somewhere beyond the sky, a heavenly record was rewritten. It no longer read, “He didn’t know.” It now said, “He knew. And he chose to return.”

The Boy Who Got Hit (But Was Still a Brother)

After the boy stopped lying — or at least started trying — things didn’t immediately get easier.

In fact, they got harder.

Because when you stop swearing false things about yourself, the world doesn’t always applaud.
It gets confused.
Sometimes it pushes back.
Sometimes… it hits.

And the boy, still tender from years of silencing, felt the sting.

He stumbled into a wall of shame.
He tripped over old habits.
He got lashed — not with a whip, but with the ache of memory, rejection, loneliness, and confusion.

And for a moment, he wondered:

“Is this my punishment?
For lying to myself all those years?
For pretending I was stone when I was really gold?
For swearing that I didn’t matter?”

The Teacher came back.

He didn’t scold. He sat beside the boy, brushing dust from his shoulder.

And he said, quietly:

“You know, in the old books, there’s something called a שְׁבוּעַת שָׁוְא — a vain oath.

It’s when someone says something that’s clearly false, but they swear it’s true.

Like saying a man is a woman.
Or a stone is gold.
Or that a camel flew through the sky.

Or like saying, ‘I’m unworthy.’
‘I’m nothing.’
‘No one could love me.’

Even if no one else heard the oath — you lived by it.
And it wasn’t true.

And yes… when someone swears that kind of oath on purpose, the Torah says they get lashes.”

The boy’s eyes widened.

“So this… this pain… it’s from the oath?”

The Teacher nodded.

“Not as punishment.
But as rupture — as the world cracking the lie off your skin.
The blows aren’t from hate.
They’re the sound of a soul breaking free.”

The boy looked down. His arms ached with invisible stripes.
But something else stirred beneath them — like sap running through bark after a long winter.

And the Teacher said one more thing:

“After the lashes… the Torah says something wild.

It says, ‘Your brother he remains.’

Even if you lied.
Even if you got hit.
Even if you forgot your own name.

You are still His.
Still beloved.
Still worthy of returning.”

And the boy — no longer just a boy, but a soul mid-return — stood up.

Not unbruised.
Not perfected.
But real.

And this time, he didn’t swear.
He didn’t vow or perform.

He simply said:

“I’m here.
And I knew the whole time.
And I’m ready now to be seen.”

And with that… the next chapter began.

Today, I learned a Mishnah from Masechet Shavuot, and it unraveled something deep inside me.

The Mishnah, in Shavuot 35a, describes a situation where someone imposes an oath on witnesses: “I make you swear that if you ever know testimony about me, you’ll come and testify.” The Mishnah says these witnesses are exempt from liability—even if they later learn something and don’t testify—because the oath came before they knew any specific details. In other words, the Torah only holds witnesses accountable for a shevuat ha’edut (oath of testimony) when they already know the facts at the time of the oath and still swear they don’t.

The Gemara adds another layer: this kind of oath only applies to cases about money—something tangible, like a debt or a transaction. If the testimony is about something intangible—emotions, dreams, the inner stuff of a person—the Torah doesn’t hold them liable in the same way.

That struck me hard.

I’ve been living under promises I made to myself, promises no one ever asked for. I told myself I had to stay small. That I shouldn’t ask for too much. That my story only mattered if it came with pain. I didn’t speak these promises out loud, but I lived them—in the way I shrank from connection, in the way I built my life around never needing anything, never showing vulnerability.

But the Mishnah made me realize: these promises don’t count as a shevuat ha’edut. They’re not about money, and I didn’t swear them in a courtroom. Legally, the Torah wouldn’t hold me accountable for them in that way. So why was I holding myself to them like they were law?

Then the Gemara, in Shavuot 35a, said something that stopped me in my tracks: “L’chayev al ha’mezid ka’shogeg”—the Torah holds you just as accountable for a willful lie as an unintentional one in this case. Most sins in the Torah, like becoming impure or breaking a law by mistake, only require a sacrifice if you didn’t know what you were doing—if it was hidden, v’ne’elam. But for shevuat ha’edut, the Torah assumes you knew the truth. It says in Leviticus 5:1, “If he knew and did not testify”—im yada. If you knew the facts and swore you didn’t, you’re responsible, because you chose to stay silent.

That got me thinking about a different kind of oath the Torah talks about: a shevuat shav, a vain oath. This is when someone swears something they know is false—like saying a stone is gold, or a man is a woman. The Gemara in Shavuot 29a says that if you make this kind of oath on purpose, knowing it’s a lie, the Torah holds you accountable. You might face malkot—lashes—not because you hurt someone, but because you misused the truth.

And that’s when it hit me. I did know.

I knew I wasn’t a burden. I knew I had things to say, words worth hearing. I knew I wanted to be loved, to be seen, to be real. But I swore to myself that I didn’t—I lived like I was less than I am. That wasn’t a shevuat ha’edut, because it wasn’t about testimony in a court. But it was a shevuat shav, a vain oath, because I lived a lie I knew wasn’t true.

The Torah says that kind of oath comes with a consequence—not literal lashes, but a kind of internal breaking. A sting, a wake-up call in your soul. And I’ve been feeling that lately. It’s not loud or dramatic, not some big, flashy turnaround. It’s a quiet unlearning, a slow shedding of the lies I’ve carried. A gentle, honest shift.

Maybe that’s what growth feels like: noticing the false oaths you’ve lived by and letting them go.

And the Torah gives one final gift. Even after the sting, it says: “Achicha hu”—he is your brother. You’re still in. Still beloved. Still worthy of coming back.

Not because you never got it wrong, but because you’re starting to live the truth. Maybe it’s messy. Maybe part of you is still hiding. But you’re here. You’re learning.

And that’s the beginning of something new.

And the best part?

And maybe that’s some of the deepest truth of Torah:

• That you’re allowed to get it wrong.

• That you can fall for your own false testimony.

• And that God waits not to punish — but to hear your real oath, Your real “Shema Yisrael, your real Ve’ahavta.

Best,

Moshe Haim

P.S. Trust is a journey, not a destination. Be patient, dear ones.

P.P.S. Healing and self-discovery continues. If you feel the call to deepen this work, to truly step into the light of your own being, I invite you to join us at the next Hineini Retreat. It’s a sacred space where these shadows can be fully explored, embraced, and transformed. Come, be a part of a community that supports you in this dance of reclamation and renewal. You deserve it.