Our Gemara on Amud Beis explains the reasoning behind the extra legal power granted to a person on their deathbed to make gifts without requiring physical acts of acquisition (kinyan) to signify the transfer of ownership. In such cases, words alone suffice to effectuate the transfer:

The halakha that the gift of a person on his deathbed does not require an act of acquisition is merely by rabbinic law, instituted lest he see that his will is not being carried out and he lose control of his mind due to his grief, exacerbating his physical state.

Because this individual is in precarious health, the rabbis sought to avoid causing additional anguish or stress. They therefore dispensed with the usual legal formalities and requirements, ensuring the person could have peace of mind, confident that their estate would be allocated according to their wishes.

Rav Zalman Sorotzkin (Aznayim LaTorah, Bamidbar 27:9) makes an ironic observation about human nature in this context. Imagine this person’s state of mind: He is about to meet his Maker, and yet he is consumed with worry over his finances. Could anything be more absurd? Granted, there is a certain altruistic element to this concern—ensuring debts are repaid, children are provided for, and loyal friends are properly remembered. However, there is still something almost ridiculous about fretting over money or possessions when preparing to enter the ultimate reality of divine truth. One might assume this person would trust that God would take care of these matters and he need not dwell on them excessively. At the very least, if he made reasonable efforts and encountered frustration, these concerns should not top his worry list.

Yet, the human capacity for denial seems boundless. Psychologically, this behavior might reflect what is called a displaced feeling. Displacement is an ego defense mechanism wherein the mind unconsciously redirects a painful or overwhelming emotion into a more manageable but related issue. For example, someone whose house burned down might fixate on the loss of a particular family photograph, as the raw pain of the larger catastrophe—the close brush loss of life or the home itself—feels too overwhelming to confront directly. Similarly, this person may be channeling the unbearable reality of their impending death into a more tangible and less existential concern: the organization of their estate.

One of the remarkable qualities of Chazal is their sensitivity to human suffering. They did not dismiss or psychologize a person’s subjective pain, even when it seemed irrational or misplaced. A striking example of this comes from Sanhedrin (75a), where the Gemara describes a man so lovesick that doctors attested he would die if he could not fulfill his desire. The rabbis deliberated extensively over the matter, taking his emotional state seriously and without cynicism. They did not dismiss his suffering by saying, “It’s all in your head” or suggesting he simply study more mussar. They treated his pain as real and valid.

This same empathy is evident in the halakha regarding a dying person’s gifts. Though it may seem absurd to worry about financial matters at such a critical moment, the rabbis recognized the subjective reality of this concern. They sought to ease this person’s mind, even in the face of what might appear as misplaced priorities. For Chazal, alleviating human suffering—even in its most irrational forms—was a paramount value.