Originally published by Rabbi Dr. Shlomo Brody in HaMizrachi

On Tisha B’Av, it is traditionally encouraged to study Hilchot Aveilut (the laws of mourning), one of the few subjects deemed appropriate for the saddest day of the Jewish year. Many extend this practice throughout the preceding nine days. But this association has fostered a broader assumption: that mourning laws, including the relevant sections of Mo’ed Katan, should be avoided the rest of the year entirely.

Clearly, if you have a question regarding aveilut, you should ask someone or learn the relevant texts. The real question is one of boundaries: should mourning be a subject of elective, purely theoretical study when there is no immediate need? As we’ll see, this discussion reveals something deeper about how Judaism approaches mortality itself.

Hesitation over these topics often stems from a traditional anxiety about metaphysical danger. Rabbi Nachman of Breslov (Sichot HaRan 8) explicitly urged people not to “delve deeply” into matters of calamity. In his worldview, human thoughts do not merely process reality; they actively shape it. Dwelling too intensely on theoretical tragedy can inadvertently draw those negative energies toward the one studying.

Even the greatest poskim shared this sensitivity. The Chatam Sofer recounts that he had just received a learned responsum from his illustrious father-in-law, Rabbi Akiva Eiger, on the laws of mourning – politely euphemized in the tradition as Hilchot Semachot, “The Laws of Joys” – when word reached him that his mother had died. He could not help feeling that his very engagement with the subject had somehow invited the tragedy (Shu”t Chatam Sofer, YD 346).

The Talmudic principle he invoked is: “Kol de-kafid, kafdi bahadei; u-de-la kafid, la kafdi bahadei, malign forces trouble those who are troubled by them; those who pay them no mind, they leave alone” (Pesachim 110b). Because Rabbi Akiva Eiger was unbothered by such anxieties, he was inherently immune and could engage with the subject freely. The Chatam Sofer, writing after shiva, nonetheless suggested to him that such theoretical study was best reserved for Tisha B’Av itself.

Other authorities recommend engaging with such texts more briskly (Beit Lechem Yehudah YD 245:4) or studying them privately rather than in groups (Shayarei Knesset Ha-Gedolah 245:3).

None of this amounts to advocating ignorance of the laws. Rabbis must clearly learn these laws to guide the people. Indeed, the Chatam Sofer himself authored numerous responsa on aveilut throughout his life. It reflects, rather, a strand in Jewish thought that counsels against dwelling on mortality beyond what necessity demands.

Many poskim, however, consider such fears unwarranted and especially misplaced when they lead to the neglect of Torah study. Jewish texts are saturated with mourning: the stories of Avraham, Aharon, King David, and Iyov are only the most prominent examples. Studying Mo’ed Katan, the minor tractate Hilchot Semachot, and similar texts is an act of Torah study no different from any other.

This point is made in an oft-cited passage in Sefer Chassidim (#261, Margoliyot edition). Writing in the medieval period, when Mo’ed Katan and similar works had fallen into neglect, the author urges readers to treat the tractate as a meit mitzvah, an unattended corpse with no one to care for it. Just as a meit mitzvah obligates whoever encounters it to stop and attend to it, so too a neglected area of Torah obligates us to engage with it, precisely because no one else will.

He captures this neglect with an analogy of quiet devastation. A father has several daughters, all skilled in respectable crafts of weaving and embroidery. Suitors come eagerly for each of them. One daughter alone goes unclaimed. She too is a weaver, but she weaves mourning garments and burial shrouds. No one wants to be near that. She pleads with her father: had she made festive clothing like her sisters, she would have found a husband long ago. His reply is not consolation but prophecy: “I praise you above them all, for in the end, everyone will come to you.”

Sefer Chassidim then applies the parable directly to Mo’ed Katan, which cries out to G-d asking why no one studies it. G-d’s answer is the verse from Kohelet: “It is better to go to the house of mourning than to the house of feasting, for that is the end of all mankind, and the living will take it to heart.” The tractate is not lesser for what it contains. It is, if anything, more essential.

This is the crux of the matter. The hesitations we have traced – metaphysical anxieties, the advice to study quietly or quickly, the personal fear of confronting mortality – are understandable and may be respected. But they reflect individual temperament, not a genuine prohibition. The daughter weaving shrouds is doing nothing shameful. She is doing something most people are simply not yet ready to face. Judaism insists that we face it. Confronting mortality is not morbidity, but wisdom. The living, as Kohelet reminds us, are meant to take it to heart.

Indeed, the Sages praise those who sew their own burial shrouds in their lifetime, a point noted by later poskim (Beit Yosef, YD 339). As Rabbi Chaim Falagi asserted, “Praiseworthy is the man who makes his own burial shrouds while he is alive and in the best of health” (Ruach Chaim, YD 352). To study the laws of mourning is to weave those same shrouds: to acknowledge, with honesty and care, that death is the end of all mankind, and that this fact demands our attention rather than our silence.

Sefer Chassidim goes on to suggest that those who are fearful to learn this subject can pray beforehand, or study it quietly by themselves. Study these laws with the gravity they demand, and you are not only safe but praiseworthy. Indeed, he promises those who learn this “meit mitzvah” subject will receive great reward.

As Rabbi Shlomo Aviner has shown, leading contemporary poskim across the spectrum embraced this approach without reservation. Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik regularly taught Mo’ed Katan and related matters to his students (Mi-Peninei HaRav, 211). Rabbi Shlomo Zalman Auerbach gave public classes on these topics and urged both laypeople and rabbis to know hilchot aveilut so as not to be caught unprepared (Halichot Shlomo: Moadei Hashanah, 439). Rabbi Ovadiah Yosef, Rabbi Yosef Elyashiv, Rabbi Chaim Kanievsky, and many others did the same.

Judaism has never shied away from death. Our first morning prayers thank G-d for the renewed gift of life, acknowledging in the same breath that He will one day reclaim it. Our tradition understands that confronting mortality is not morbidity but wisdom. The awareness of death, held honestly, is precisely what gives life its urgency and meaning. We cannot afford to avoid the laws of mourning. We need to draw inspiration from our mortality, not flee from it. The daughter who weaves shrouds may be the last one sought, but she is the one everyone will eventually need. Tisha B’Av reminds us of this once a year. The Torah invites us to learn it all year long.