Sanhedrin 77
Our Gemara on amud aleph discusses various scenarios where a person causes another’s death intentionally but not directly – for example, tying someone up in a situation where the sun will rise and cause them to die from heatstroke. This is known as gramma – an indirect causation – which is not punishable in a Jewish court but is among the many sins that incur a heavenly death penalty. However, in terms of monetary damages to objects, if a person was designated as a watchman, he would be liable for gramma.
The Ohr HaChaim (Bereishis 4:8) interprets the verses describing Kayin’s murder of Hevel as also occurring through indirect means. He suggests that Kayin somehow tricked Hevel into becoming trapped underground and then left him there to suffocate.
With this introduction, Eishel Avraham (Bereishis) applies this understanding to Kayin’s dialogue with G-d. Kayin says (ibid. 9), “Am I my brother’s watchman?” Meaning to say: “Shall I be liable like a watchman for indirect damages? I didn’t do it – the dirt did it to him!” To this, G-d responds (ibid. 10), “The voice of the blood of your brother calls out to Me,” meaning: “True, in a human court you are not held liable, but in the Heavenly court, you are. His blood calls out to Me, demanding justice.”
Kayin’s original response to G-d has a particularly sarcastic tone (stemming from his guilt and defensiveness) – something not commonly found in Scripture. Another example of sarcasm in Tanach occurs when Bnei Yisrael, panicked and believing they faced certain doom as Pharaoh’s army closed in by the Red Sea, complained: “Is there a shortage of graves in Egypt that you had to bring us out to the wilderness to die?” (Shemos 14:11).
Sarcasm is a distinctly human form of communication, employing irony to convey criticism and hostility indirectly. Often, sarcasm is passive-aggressive, used by those who do not feel empowered to express themselves directly. People resort to passive-aggressiveness when they feel powerless – either due to external factors (such as an overbearing authority) or internal struggles (such as insecurity or fear of direct confrontation).
In both the case of Kayin and that of Bnei Yisrael, sarcasm and passive-aggressiveness emerge from a sense of being cornered – Kayin when confronted by G-d, and Bnei Yisrael when they felt trapped between the sea and Pharaoh’s army. This powerlessness and fear allow aggression to surface only indirectly.
Generally, sarcasm is a poor communication technique because instead of fostering dialogue, it sets up an oppressor vs. victim dynamic. In most relationships, even when one party struggles with being collaborative or respectful, a firm yet direct challenge – delivered without intense emotions – tends to be more effective than sarcasm.
Sarcastic remarks often carry the poisonous sting of contempt, which can erode relationships (Gottman & Silver, 1999). Instead of opening a conversation, sarcasm acts as a conversation closer, shifting responsibility away from oneself and onto others.
Consider Kayin’s words to G-d and Bnei Yisrael’s complaint to Moshe:
“Why should I be burdened with watching my brother?”
“Why did you drag us out of Egypt? We didn’t need to leave to die in the wilderness – we had plenty of graves back there.”
Both statements essentially mean: “What do you want from me?” This, instead of admitting, “There is a problem I need to take responsibility for,” or “I must be vulnerable and acknowledge my fears.”
Of course, if one is truly dealing with an oppressor who has no capacity for self-reflection or collaboration, then sarcasm may be the only means of expression. However, the problem is that in most conflict-ridden relationships, people assume the other party is entirely unreasonable and unreachable, so sarcasm becomes part of a hopeless cycle. But this cycle is also self-reinforcing: When the other party is demonized and treated as impossible to work with, sarcasm and passive-aggressiveness ensue, which do not invite collaboration.
A classic example is a person who must care for an elderly parent. Let us imagine that aside from legitimate needs, there is also a history of narcissism and dependency. Such individuals often bemoan how they “hate to be a burden” – while paradoxically making themselves even more of a burden by seeking constant reassurance that they are not.
Caretakers in this situation might become sarcastic, short, and dismissive, as they feel unable to genuinely express their struggles. It is difficult to honestly say something like: “It’s a tough situation, but we are family. You can also help by keeping a positive attitude, being a source of encouragement instead of guilt and sadness. The best way you can be ‘less of a burden’ is by trying to be as independent as possible and working toward recovery.”
But now I will be sarcastic: Who really says that? Especially to an elderly parent who wasn’t particularly empathetic or flexible even when fully alert and well.
And yet, is sarcasm more effective?
Perhaps this is part of what we pray for daily in Birchos HaShachar: “Let it be Your will…that I be spared from brazen people and from brazenness…” Sarcasm is a form of brazenness, a defense mechanism that replaces vulnerable, honest dialogue. In this tefillah, we ask not only for the wisdom to use sarcasm sparingly but also for relationships that nurture healthier forms of communication.
The Bark Of Sin Is Worse Than The Bite
Sanhedrin 78
Our Gemara on amud aleph continues its discussion of various indirect forms of murder, including the case of one who causes a snake to bite a person. There is a dispute regarding how direct this action is, and according to our Gemara’s analysis, it depends on where the venom is located.
Rabbi Yehuda holds that the venom is upon the snake’s fangs. Therefore, in this case, the entire action is performed by the individual who embeds the fangs into the victim’s skin. The snake is passive. Consequently, the one who causes the snake to bite is liable to be executed by beheading with a sword as a murderer, while the snake is exempt.
However, according to the statement of the Rabbis, a snake actively discharges its venom. In this view, the snake directly causes the death, while the person who embeds the fangs is merely an indirect cause. As a result, the snake is executed by stoning (as is the case for any animal that kills), while the one who caused the snake to bite is exempt from execution.
The phrase “the venom is upon the snake’s fangs” carries a deeper meaning. Sefer Daf al Daf quotes the Gra, who, in his characteristic style, plays with the Hebrew letters to reveal a hidden insight. The two primary agents of sin are the snake (nachash), which served as the seducer in the Garden of Eden, and Satan. The Hebrew words nachash and Satan both contain the letters shin and nun – which also form the Hebrew word for tooth (shen). In between these “teeth” of nachash and Satan lie the letters chet and tet, which together spell chet, meaning sin. Thus, both literally and figuratively, the poison – the sin – lies between the “teeth” of the nachash and Satan.
This is a clever drash, but would the Gra engage in mere wordplay without a deeper message? There must be more to it. In the metaphor, the toxin already rests on the surface of the fangs before they puncture the skin; it is not something produced later by the snake. The sinner, seduced by his desires, often justifies himself by claiming, “It came upon me suddenly,” “I had no idea this would happen,” or “Things just got out of control.” Similarly, the murderer might argue that he did not inject the venom – the snake did. But the truth is that the potential for sin was already there; he merely turned a blind eye to his true motives. Just as chet is already embedded within the words nachash and Satan, so too, sin is already present, potentially, before the final act occurs.
There is a wise saying in the recovery community: “The alcoholic loses his sobriety long before he takes his first drink.” This is a profound idea. The alcoholic has already begun rationalizing, justifying, and mentally preparing for his relapse long before his self-control erodes and he actually drinks.
A similar dynamic is subtly hinted at in the story of Yosef and Potiphar’s wife. At first, the verses describe how she persistently pursued him while he resisted her advances (Bereishis 39:7-10). However, in verse 11, there is a shift in tone: “One such day, he came into the house to do his work. None of the household being there inside…” The wording carries an almost satirical undertone: “One fine, innocent day, Yosef just happened to come back to the house, when somehow no one happened to be home, to do ‘his work.’”
Rashi (ibid.), quoting Midrash Tanchuma and Gemara Sotah (37), explains that while the members of the household had gone to the temple to worship, Potiphar’s wife pretended to be ill so she could stay home alone, knowing that Yosef, who refused to participate in idolatrous rituals, would also remain behind. Yet Rashi also brings an additional interpretation – “he came to do his work” – implying that Yosef himself was beginning to weaken and consider giving in to his desires.
Did he know she would be there? No – she was supposed to be at the temple. But was this truly an unforeseen moral challenge, or was it a subconscious setup? Deep down, did he suspect, or even hope, that she might be home?
This is what the Gra means: The sin is already on the fangs of the snake. The sinner often deceives himself, claiming that the Golden Calf simply “magically popped out of the fire” (see Shemos 32:24, Rashi, and Pirkei D’Rabbi Eliezer 45:5). But in reality, sin is rarely spontaneous. The distorted and entitled thinking that leads to sin is already active long before the moment of temptation.
We must never underestimate our ability to deny or minimize the poison when, in truth, it is already right there – on the surface, waiting to strike.
