The Life and Learning of Rav Aharon Lichtenstein ZT”L
By Rabbi Ari Kahn
The following is, for the most part, a transcript
of a talk given in Yeshivat Sha’alvim, approximately one week after the passing
of Rav Lichtenstein.
The written version has been slightly modified in terms of sequence and by the
addition of footnotes.
What follows are some personal reflections on the
life of our great teacher, Morenu V’Rabenu Harav Aharon Lichtenstein Zecher
Tzaddik L’vracha. I will not call this a hesped, for a number of
reasons. First and foremost, in order to eulogize another person, the speaker
must be on the proper level, and so to be able to give a proper hesped
for Rav Lichtenstein I would have to be on a level that far exceeds my own. When
the Shulchan Oruch sets out the laws of hespedim, we are taught:
מצוה
גדולה להספיד על המת כראוי. )שולחן ערוך יורה דעה
הלכות אבילות סימן שמ”ד(
“It is a great mitzvah
to eulogize the deceased appropriately (in a fitting or appropriate manner).”
The emphasis seems to be on the word כראוי - “in a manner that is
appropriate for the niftar.” If one cannot do
it properly, it may be best not to do it at all. The Shulchan Oruch then continues,
describing the objective of eulogy:
ומצותו
שירים קולו לומר עליו דברים המשברים את הלב, כדי להרבות בכיה ולהזכיר שבחו.
The mitzvah, the
objective of a hesped, is to bring people to tears; that is not my
objective here today. Thirdly, the Shulchan Oruch instructs that a hesped should
not overly exaggerate in praising the deceased:
ואסור
להפליג בשבחו יותר מדאי.
For this reason, as well, this should not be
considered a hesped: I will not exaggerate at all. I will simply share
what I know of Rav Aharon; things I observed and learned directly will be
transmitted as such, as well as things I heard from others that I believe to be
true.
I would like to begin by borrowing and paraphrasing
two verses in Melachim Aleph, perek yud:
מלכים א’ פרק י: ו-ז
… אֱמֶת הָיָה הַדָּבָר אֲשֶׁר שָׁמַעְתִּי בְּאַרְצִי עַל
דְּבָרֶיךָ וְעַל חָכְמָתֶךָ: וְלֹא הֶאֱמַנְתִּי לַדְּבָרִים עַד אֲשֶׁר בָּאתִי
וַתִּרְאֶינָה עֵינַי וְהִנֵּה לֹא הֻגַּד לִי הַחֵצִי הוֹסַפְתָּ חָכְמָה וָטוֹב
אֶל הַשְּׁמוּעָה אֲשֶׁר שָׁמָעְתִּי:
It was a true
report that I heard in my own land of your acts and of your wisdom. But I did
not believe the words, until I came, and saw it with my own eyes; and, behold, I
had not been told the half of it; your wisdom and goodness exceeds the report
which I heard. (I Melachim 10: 6-7)
There are things that I will tell you today that
you might think are no more than exaggerated tales, that will sound like wild
posthumous superlatives. You might imagine that, in fact, I am giving a hesped,
exaggerating just enough or perhaps a bit more than that. I assure you once
again that this is not a hesped, and it contains no exaggeration
whatsoever.
Before I speak
about Rav Lichtenstein himself, or about the impact he has had, I should
present my own modest credentials on this matter. I first met Rav Lichtenstein
in 1978, when I was 17 years old. My conversation with him at that time lasted
only a few seconds; Rav Aharon had come to give a shiur at the Gruss
Kollel while I was studying at B.M.T. This brief conversation was made possible,
in large part, by one of my most fortunate assets in life: My older brother,
Rav Yair, was already a close and dedicated talmid of Rav Lichtenstein,
and I continue, to this very day, to be the beneficiary of their close relationship.
Rav Aharon has many more knowledgeable students than I, many students who
studied with him longer than I, and many who, without a doubt, understood much
more than I, but I had a certain zchut avot in this instance, and zchut
ha’ach.
I myself had the
zchut to become Rav Aharon’s student two years later, during the third
of my post-high school years of study in Israel, when I learned in Rav
Lichtenstein’s shiur at Yeshivat Har Etzion. I then returned to New York, where I learned
in The Rov’s shiur for three years. In 1984, I
returned to Israel and I had the privilege of learning with Rav Lichtenstein for
another three years in the Gruss Kollel.
My impression of
Rav Lichtenstein remained unchanged, from our first brief meeting until the
last time I spoke with him, 35 years later. He was, above all else, a
combination of two striking features: He was one of the most modest people I
have ever known, and at the same time one of the most intellectually brilliant.
The only question we might ask is, which of these two features was foremost?
Which was the defining, primary aspect? I am, as I have said, aware that you
might suspect me of exaggeration; this is a well-known, even natural phenomenon
when students talk about their teachers. The Gemara itself is not unaware of
this phenomenon:
תלמוד בבלי מסכת סנהדרין דף צח עמוד ב
לַמָּשִׁיחַ. מַה שְּׁמוֹ? דְּבֵי רַבִּי
שִׁילָא אַמְרֵי, ,שִׁילֹה' שְׁמוֹ, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר, (בראשית מט) "עַד
כִּי יָבֹא שִׁילֹה". דְּבֵי רַבִּי יַנַּאי אַמְרֵי, ,יִנּוֹן'
שְׁמוֹ, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר, (תהלים עב) "יְהִי שְׁמוֹ לְעוֹלָם לִפְנֵי שֶׁמֶשׁ
יִנּוֹן שְׁמוֹ". דְּבֵי רַבִּי חֲנִינָא אַמְרֵי, ,חֲנִינָה' שְׁמוֹ,
שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר, (ירמיה טז) "אֲשֶׁר לֹא אֶתֵּן לָכֶם חֲנִינָה". וְיֵשׁ
אוֹמְרִים, מְנַחֵם בֶּן חִזְקִיָּה שְׁמוֹ, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר, (איכה א)
"כִּי רָחַק מִמֶּנִּי מְנַחֵם, מֵשִׁיב נַפְשִׁי".
The question was
asked: What is the name of the Messiah? Each student offered his own teacher as
the ideal candidate; each beit midrash believed their rebbe to be Mashiach
-- which is not necessarily a bad thing. Yet while I admit that I never
contemplated the idea that Rav Lichtenstein could be the Mashiach - as I
suspect is the case among the overwhelming majority of his students – I suspect
that many of his students considered Rav Aharon worthy of a place on the
Sanhedrin. Indeed, I suspect that anyone who has read the Rambam’s description of
the qualifications for membership in the Sanhedrin would be hard pressed to
conceive of a more worthy candidate. That is who Rav Lichtenstein was – to
those who sat in his beit midrash, and to so very many others.
I would like to
go back to the beginning, to gain perspective on this extraordinary person.
Rav Lichtenstein’s
father, Dr. Yehiel Lichtenstein (son of Shmuel and Esther), was born in Kowel,
Poland but was raised in Germany. Dr. Lichtenstein was a classic European
intellectual; his doctorate, “Biblical Influences on the 17th
Century French Playwright Jacques Racine,”
secured him a position in Switzerland.
Rav Aharon’s
mother Bluma, daughter of Aba and Raizel (Ordman) Schwartz, was a “Telzer.” She
was not simply born and raised in the city of Telz – she was born in the
Yeshiva itself; the Yeshiva formed her inner personality and inspiration. Her
father was the menahel of the famous Telz Yeshiva,
and he – and his daughter Bluma – was inextricably connected to the Yeshiva. As
a child, and then as a young woman, she knew many of the gedolim of
Europe. She had lunch with Rav Elchanan Wasserman, and the Ponevicher Rov would
come for dinner. All of the gedolim were friends of the family. Years
later, when Rav Aharon first met Rav Soloveitchik in New York, the latter
remarked: “Nu, of Aharon’s mama zugt duch Rav Dovid Lifshitz az zi iz a
halbe rosh yeshiva (“Regarding Aharon’s mother, I heard Rav Dovid Lifshitz
say that she is ‘half a Rosh Yeshiva’”). In
fact, Rav Aharon proudly recounted that his
mother actually published an article in a
Torah journal – virtually unheard of for women at that time - under the
anonymous sobriquet “a Bat Yisrael, yesterday and today.”
Rav Aharon’s
mother had a brother who learned in Telz. When a new yeshiva opened in
Switzerland, he was sent, along with a select group of Telz bochurim, to
bolster the new yeshiva, to serve as a living example and role model of a “real”
yeshiva student. When Bluma travelled to Switzerland to visit her brother, she
met Yehiel Lichtenstein – and they married soon after.
Their children
were born in France, in a time of great peril: As events unfolded all across
Europe, R’ Yehiel heard rumors of what the Nazis had in store for the Jews. At
that time, it was assumed that the children’s French citizenship would protect
them from whatever lie ahead, but neither he nor his wife were French citizens.
R. Yehiel was determined to do whatever was necessary to protect his family,
and he set out to obtain French citizenship for his wife and himself. He heard
from a relative that in the city of Marseilles, some 500 kilometers away from
their home, it would be possible to obtain the necessary papers. He felt the situation was one of pikuach
nefesh, mounted his bicycle on Shabbat, and rode 500 kilometers. Upon arrival
at the appropriate office, his request for French citizenship was denied. This
might have marked a dead end for their family, denying them the protection they
thought France would provide and making them unable to emigrate to any other
place of safety for lack of documentation. However, quite miraculously, someone at
the office gave him a visa for the entire family to go to America. Although
at the time this seemed like a far less desirable solution, it was actually the
result of tremendous hashgacha (and perhaps the intercession of a
relative of Bluma’s named Joseph Shwartz). It
is not difficult to imagine what would have happened to the family had they
remained in Europe.
The Lichtenstein
family escaped Europe on the very last boat out. They arrived in America on January
8th 1941, the 9th day of Tevet, on a boat traveling from
Lisbon.
Upon their
arrival in the United States, the family moved to Baltimore, Maryland, and then
briefly to Clarksdale, Mississippi,
where they had a close relative who was a shochet. They
then moved back to Baltimore (where they had more family – and more opportunities
for a Jewish education for the children). Rav Lichtenstein recalled those years
in a review essay of a book by the Rosh Yeshiva of Ner Yisrael, Rav Aharon
Feldman:
If I may intrude a personal vein, Rabbi Feldman’s
persona arouses in me latent but very warm memories. We were classmates during
1942-1943 in the shiur of Rabbi Yaakov Bobrovsky,
zt”l, at Talmudical Academy of Baltimore– I, a spindly nine year- old immigrant
of limited social skills and of dubious acculturation; he, a bit older, firmly
entrenched in both a home of Lithuanian rabbinic stock and in his native
American milieu. We were both eager, and bright; he, beyond that, to me, a
tower of strength. He befriended me and invited me frequently to his home. I
still fondly recall the chilling warmth of joint sledding in Druid Hill Park on
Sunday afternoons. As my family moved to Chicago after a year, the friendship
gradually dissipated. There was virtually no further contact of note–not even
when, some years later, we both found our tents simultaneously pitched under
the aegis of mori verabbi, Rabbi Yitzchak Hutner, zt”l, at Chaim Berlin.
But the memory and the appreciation linger.”
And he ends the review
Finally, if I may, I close as I opened– on a personal note. Dear Reb
Aharon: That pair of juvenile prattling sledders is now well past seventy-five.
Each has, besiyata diShmaya, in successive contexts, respectively,
learned much Torah and has been blessed with the ability and the circumstances
to enable reaching out and personally transmitting to others that which we have
been endowed. It stands to reason and is, presumably, mandated by joint
mission, that our worlds meet and attain mutual fruition. As we both painfully
know, however, this occurs all too rarely.
Must the walls
that separate our communities and our institutions soar quite so high, the
interposing moat plunge quite so deep? Shall we never sled again?
By the next year
the family moved to Chicago. In his eulogy for his mother, Rav Aharon recounted
that they lived in Chicago until, at the wedding of the daughter of a prominent
member of the community, the bride walked down the aisle to “Here Comes the Bride.”
Bluma Lichtenstein was silent, but when they came home she turned to her
husband and declared “I cannot educate my children here.” She was convinced
that they must leave that city and go to a place of Torah - this,
despite the fact that her husband had not found work in Baltimore, and hence
had moved to Chicago, and the world was in the midst of a war. Their children’s
education and upbringing was of supreme importance.
Rav Aharon and
his family arrived in New York when he was 12, once again uprooted and in
unfamiliar surroundings –but his Bar Mitzva was attended by such illustrious
figures as Rav Yitzchak Hutner, Rav Yaakov Kamenetsky, Rav Dovid Lifshitz – all
of whom attended because of their relationship with his mother, Bluma
(Schwartz) Lichtenstein of Telz. And who spoke at the Bar Mitzva? His mother,
Bluma (Schwartz) Lichtenstein. Perhaps
this sums up Rav Aharon’s formative family experiences: His father was an
intellectual, a scholar, and above all else, an educator; his mother was fire,
full of confidence and passion. She embodied midat hagvura. Rav
Lichtenstein recounted in his eulogy for his mother that many years later, his
mother and sister, now living in Israel, planned to travel to a particular
destination by bus, but the bus was full and the station chaotic. His sister said,
“Let’s go home. This is not worth it,” but his mother responded: “Bluma Shvartz
aina mevateret!” “Bluma Shwartz does not back down!”
Despite the constant relocations and the language
barrier, Rav Aharon graduated Mesivta Chaim Berlin’s high school at the age of
14. His own modest explanation for this
achievement:
“I was, as a child, reasonably precocious; I advanced pretty
quickly; I was able to enjoy certain benefits which other people didn’t
have. I was able, between high school and college, to take a
year-and-a-half off to learn full-time. At that time, it was unusual, but
I was young when I graduated high school.”
He spent the next two years in the Beis Medrash of
Chaim Berlin, learning through Sha”s. He was
far younger than anyone else in the beit midrash, and was precocious
beyond his years, earning him the nickname “The babe.”
He then went to
Yeshiva University. Once again, at the age of 16-17, he was the youngest person
in this educational setting, and, based on stories I heard Rav Lichtenstein
tell over the years, he often saw himself as an outsider.
At YU, no one
was quite sure what to do with him. His age made him ineligible for placement
in The Rov’s shiur, so he was placed in the shiur of a prominent talmid
chacham, Rav Moshe Shatzkes, the stepson and student of Rav Itzele Blazer,
primary student of Rav Yisrael Salanter. Many of his fellow students did not
understand Rav Shatzkes’s shiur, so Rav Lichtenstein gave a chazara
(review) shiur. There was, however a “window of opportunity” in which
Rav Shatzkes’s shiur and Rov Soloveitchik’s shiur did not overlap, so one day a
week Rav Aharon attended The Rov’s shiur. Apparently, at the end of the
semester, Rav Aharon took the exam in the Rov’s shiur as well as the exam for
his full-time shiur with Rav Shatzkes. After the exams were read, The Rov asked,
“Who is this Aharon Lichtenstein who received the highest grade in my shiur?” -
despite attending only once a week and despite being the youngest person in the
room by far. In fact, when I learned tractate Niddah with Rav Aharon, he
mentioned that as a young man he had learned Niddah with The Rov, but when he
went to a sefarim store to buy one of the Rishonim on Masechet
Niddah, the proprietor chased him out of the store; it was unheard of
for a talmid so young to be learning such material.
After he
finished college, The Rov “hijacked” him to Boston and assured him that they
would learn together there. Not only did Rav Aharon learn with The Rov, he
became part of the Rov’s inner circle, and eventually married the Rov’s
daughter Tova. He attended Harvard, it is my understanding that Rav
Lichtenstein was the youngest PhD in English literature in the history of
Harvard.
After completing
his PhD, he returned to New York. He taught in YU and also taught English
Literature at Stern College. When I was in his home, I noticed on a plaque
hanging on the basement wall from Stern College, naming him “Best Professor of
1968.” Subsequently, when he became Rosh Kollel in YU, he gave up his teaching
position in Stern College. It
had become abundantly clear that he was not just a successful young Rosh
Yeshiva/ Rosh Kollel; he was the heir apparent. His future was assured.
And then he
received a letter from Israel, an unsigned letter penned by Rav Yehudah Amital,
offering Rav Aharon a position as Rosh Yeshiva in Har Etzion, a young new
yeshiva in the recently-liberated Gush Etzion. The
choice was far from obvious: Leaving the United States meant sacrificing the
opportunity to be the closest thing America had to a chief rabbi or mara
datra. It meant forfeiting the leadership of modern (“centrist”) orthodoxy.
Instead, Rav Aharon chose to go to a little yeshiva on the West Bank.
At that time,
the yeshiva had no facilities of any kind: the present complex, beit
midrash, dormitories, a library, offices – were not even a dream. Rav
Aharon’s choice was motivated by the purest Zionism - ahavat zion. He
wanted to be a part of the process and not a spectator from overseas. He made a
choice that not many in his position would have made: He chose a small,
relatively unknown yeshiva over the flagship institution of modern orthodoxy.
Having looked
closely at his biography, we are now perhaps more familiar with the contours of
his life story; we know where he came from, but all of these events do not
explain who he was. We have merely established that he was, to wildly
understate it, very smart. That is what
made him an outstanding student. But what made him an outstanding teacher? What
was his method? What was his educational legacy? As I mentioned earlier, I
learned for 3 years in The Rov’s shiur and four years in Rav Lichtenstein’s
shiur, and if I may, I would like to describe the difference between the two.
The Rov was the
greatest ba’al masbir. He could explain anything, any concept, any sugyah. Perhaps it is hyperbole, but people said
that a 12-year-old with 6 weeks of Gemara background could understand
what the Rov was saying. The Rov was uniquely capable of taking the most
complicated things in the world and making them sound impossibly easy. By making
“simple” distinctions and creating “basic” categories (gavra versus cheftza),
he would cut through all confusion and illuminate the central issue. Everything
would fall into place; everything became easy. Rav Lichtenstein, on the other
hand, would take the easiest thing in the world, the thing that looked simple
and straightforward, the thing you were certain you understood completely, and show
how impossibly complicated it actually is. This, of course, made Rav
Lichtenstein’s shiur very complex, very difficult. If we understand why this
was so, we may begin to understand more about the man.
I have met many talmidei
chachamim, but I have never met anyone who knew Sha”s and Rishonim
the way Rav Lichtenstein did. First and foremost, the breadth of his knowledge
was unsurpassed. He was familiar with all Rishonim – those that
appear “on the page,” that are easily accessible, as well as Rishonim most
of us have never heard of. Rav Lichtenstein approached a sugya by
presenting one question: “What are the possible understandings of this sugya?”
Even when the sugya appeared straightforward at first reading, there
could be four, five, six possibilities. He would then line up the Rishonim,
grouping them into those possibilities. When a possibility was put forward that
was not found in the Rishonim, he would ask, “Why not? Why was this
possibility not suggested by any of the Rishonim?” The process then
moved on to further categorization and subdivision, examination of the
practical differences between the various approaches; determining the “nafka
minot” between the different approaches.
This methodology
is unique. Most Roshei Yeshiva learn a sugya by posing a difficult
question that arises from that sugya, and giving a brilliant answer that
clarifies and explains all the factors. By either raising or resolving the
problem – or both - the Rosh Yeshiva displays his own brilliance, and his
students leave the shiur duly impressed and in possession of the rebbe’s
unique insight.
This was never Rav
Lichtenstein’s way. His shiur was not designed to showcase his own
brilliance. His shiur was an act of tzimtzum; he would neither
raise the question nor provide the answer. Rather, in every shiur, he
would analyze the opinions of the Rishonim, break them down, work out
the nafka minoyt between them. I believe – and I am sure many others who
experienced his shiurim firsthand would agree - that you could stop him at
any point in any sugya in Sha”s – all six Sedarim,
including Kodshim and Taharos - and he would be able to lay out
for you, on the spot, not only the Gemara, the opinions of the Tannaim
and Amoraim, not only the classic Gemara-Rashi- Tosfot structure of the sugya,
but all the Rishonim, how they lined up into different approaches to the
sugya in question, what each of the Rishonim said specifically,
and what the nafka mina was between the different opinions. He saw each sugya,
and the Talmud as a whole, as a building, while others saw a page of Gemara,
a question and an answer. His process was multi-dimensional. The way he
approached a sugya, the way his mind worked, the way he learned and the
way he taught us to learn, was to always consider all the possibilities. Most
of us, if truth be told, do not approach anything that way – not in
life, and certainly not in learning. Most of us look at the Gemara, learn and
investigate the sugya until the point we think we have a grasp on pshat.
On a good day, we notice a machlokes Rishonim. Rav Lichtenstein saw
the Gemara – every page, every sugya - in a much more sophisticated
manner. He saw Sha”s in all of its complexity, sought out the tensions
rather than the easy resolutions. Thus, while The Rov’s brilliance was to make
everything clear through an analysis that created harmony, Rav Lichtenstein was
uniquely gifted in showing us how the light refracted through the solidity of
the sugya, as it were. He never “played the game” of asking the
hard question and then giving the brilliant answer; instead, he challenged us
to see every sugya from all possible vantage points.
What did this
mean for his students? Those who prepared properly before the shiur, with
the help of the sources he provided each week for the following week’s shiur,
would already know 95% of what would be said in the shiur. If, however,
you did not spend your week diligently preparing – collecting the raw materials
for the building he would construct in the shiur - you could hope to follow only 5% or less of
what he said in the shiur. The sources were points along the
intellectual process he had mapped out, stages in constructing an organic,
multi-dimensional understanding of the sugya. If you prepared, you “got
it;” if not, you would be overwhelmed by the layers upon layers of complexity
compounded by complexity. He illustrated and applied this same approach to
learning, week after week, month after month, year after year.
Rav Re’em Hakohen,
Rosh Yeshiva of Otniel and a dedicated student of Rav Aharon, himself a man of
great learning and superb mastery of Talmudic literature and scholarship, said that
in his opinion there never was a Rishon or Achron who knew how to
read a text as sensitively as Rav Aharon Lichtenstein. Rav Re’em added that
before Rav Aharon arrived in Eretz Yisrael, no one knew how to learn. For
decades, the practice in yeshivot had always been to learn Gemara, Rashi and
Tosfot, to then look at the Rosh and Rambam, and with that to conclude
that the sugya had been mastered, and move on. Rav Aharon’s arrival
revolutionized the study of Talmud: He taught an entire generation – more
precisely, three generations - how to learn. He raised the bar, opened up a
completely new world of sophistication, and set wholly different goals for
himself and his students. Those who prepared for his shiur week after
week learned much more than the individual sugyot; we learned the derech,
the method; we learned to approach learning as he did. It was hard work, it required
rigor, but Rav Aharon taught us how to learn.
To be sure, Rav
Aharon’s shiur seemed extraordinarily complex to those who had not
followed the sources and prepared for the shiur; however, this
complexity was, in fact, the result of Rav Aharon holding back. Rather than
resolving all conflicts or questions with brilliant displays of his unique genius,
he taught us – methodically, uncompromisingly - how to learn, one sugya
after another. But this rigor, this multi-faceted view of the subject at hand,
was not limited to the curriculum. Rav Aharon’s process of considering any and
every question from all its possible sides spilled over to other areas. A
student or colleague might spend months researching a topic or grappling with a
problem - in learning or in life - before discussing it with Rav Aharon, and then
quickly realize there were three, four, or even many more sides he had never
considered.
This brings me
to the other aspects of Rav Aharon’s personality: What made him an invaluable
resource, what made him not merely a great teacher but a great rebbe, a role
model for midot and halichot? How is it possible that a person of
this unfathomable intellectual capability could be equally revered for the
aspects of his leadership that had little or nothing to do with learning per
se? Reading or listening to many of the hespedim, one cannot help but
notice that almost everyone focused on his middot, on hesed, tzedaka,
bein adam lchavero. I believe that until I met and observed Rav
Lichtenstein, until I actually got to know him, the stories that I had heard
about Rav Yisrael Salanter had seemed far-fetched. After seeing Rav Aharon’s
behavior – over the course of decades, in so many different situations – I
began to understand a very surprising truth: If there can be a Rav Aharon
Lichtenstein, if such a person can actually exist and walk among us, then the
legends about Rav Yisrael Salanter were not exaggerated. It may surprise some
people to learn how great a talmid chacham Rav Yisrael Salanter was: He
was so great in terms of his hesed that his brilliance in learning has
become somewhat eclipsed. I was reminded of this when so many of Rav
Lichtenstein’s maspidim spoke of his greatness in the interpersonal realm.
I began to suspect that Rav Aharon’s
intellectual stature was so formidable that few, if any, entertained the
fantasy of emulating his brilliance. Perhaps they hoped to emulate his behavior
instead, thinking this might be a more realistic goal, but soon discovered that
he was no less than the Gadol haDor in hesed and bein adam
lchavero. In this sphere, too, he was far beyond anything we had ever
imagined.
Let me share
some personal, first-hand recollections:
The first time I
laid eyes on Rav Aharon, I saw an image that is probably seared into the minds
of many, many people. I was privileged to study with him when he was in his
prime (I studied with Rav Gustman, The Rov, and Nechama Leibowitz when they
were already quite elderly and in declining health). He seemed not only young,
but youthful. He looked like an athlete (my brother was still playing
basketball with him at the time – which, he told me, Rav Aharon did with all of
his strength. Rav Lichtenstein believed that whatever you do, you must give
100%. Thus, Rabbi Menachem Genack recalled that while vacationing in Onset,
where many students came for the summer to study with The Rov, Rav Aharon
remarked, “I find it unethical that people exert themselves only on offense but
not on defense.”). A tall man who stood
absolutely straight, he was dressed like an American yeshiva bochur:
clean-shaven, wearing a hat and jacket, carrying more books than seemed humanly
possible, and moving more quickly than seemed possible considering the weight
of those books. He moved toward the beit midrash, nearly running, with
some 20 books in his arms, quickly and with purpose, bounding up the stairs. He
never walked at a leisurely pace; when he was not actually running, he walked
briskly.
When he entered
the room, he began the shiur immediately; there was no small
talk, only total dedication to Torah. His hatmada was almost beyond
belief:While studying at Harvard, he
learned Torah as much as he could each day, never losing sight on the religious
and intellectual anchor of his inner world.
I mentioned
earlier that Rav Aharon’s father, Dr. Yehiel Lichtenstein, was an educator.
After years of moving from place to place in the US, later on in his life Dr.
Lichtenstein taught in the Brooklyn branch of Yeshiva University’s high
schools, BTA and Central– where both my
father and my sister studied with him. Imagine: A European scholar, an intellectual
of the highest order, found himself teaching high school Hebrew and French in
order to support his family. These
American teenagers were ill-equipped and ill-disposed to appreciate the man who
stood before them; they were, in general, inattentive, disinterested, and often
disrespectful toward the father of the Gadol haDor. Years later, when I was
a talmid in Har Etzion, Rav Aharon’s parents were by then elderly
people, and the years had taken their toll. However, if you would have seen Rav
Lichtenstein’s Kibbud Av vEm for his parents, it would not have made a
difference if you knew anything about his intellectual or pedagogic accomplishments
– for that matter, it would not have mattered if you knew whether or not he could
hold a Gemara the right way up: Simply watching the honor with which Rav Aharon
treated his parents, the way he took care of his parents, would have left you –
as it did me - in awe. Simply watching Rav Aharon’s behavior was enough to
convince everyone who was lucky enough to observe it, that we were in the
presence of greatness, that we had the privilege of observing the personal
behavior of a great man.
His father was
by then blind, and almost completely deaf. Rav Aharon would walk with him, hand
in hand, slowly and carefully. The elderly Dr. Lichtenstein had never been a
tall or athletic man (the immigration manifest when he came to America listed
him as 5 feet 3 inches tall); Rav Aharon, who stood well over 6 feet tall,
would take his father by the hand, and, speaking to him in Hebrew, as he had
for his entire life, they
would walk. When they arrived at a staircase, Rav Aharon would call out loudly,
crouching down near his father’s ear with no self-consciousness or
embarrassment, “ABBA - SHEVA LA’OLOT!” – “Father, seven steps up!” In the beit
midrash, Rav Aharon stood next to his father, and would daven in his
ear, shouting at the top of his lungs as if no one else was present. He had one
job to do, to take care of his father, and he applied himself to it with the same
all-encompassing concentration and enthusiasm as he did to every task he took
upon himself.
When the yeshiva
once ran into financial difficulty, the idea was suggested that those who were
“least necessary” should be let go. Rav Aharon objected; he argued that those
who earn the lowest salaries need their jobs the most, and would have the
hardest time finding employment elsewhere. The ethical thing, he explained,
would be to fire those most capable of finding new employment, or, at the very
least, to cut the salaries of those who draw the highest pay. He immediately
offered to have his own salary reduced - an offer the hanhalah did not
accept. This finely tuned sense of ethics guided him every step of the way.
Rav Aharon’s
students, very simply put, loved him, but I don’t know if he ever knew how much
and how well we loved him. It was the purest type of love: Anyone who truly
loved Torah had to love Rav Aharon. Anyone who loved middot had to love
Rav Aharon. Anyone who respected authentic Avodat Hashem had to love Rav
Aharon. Anyone who respected authenticity had to love Rav Aharon. He had all of
these traits, coupled with profound humility, which was evident in everything
he did - from the way he thought to the way he gave shiur to the way he
conducted himself, from his dress and comportment to his absolute refusal to
accept any preferential treatment. Some poignant stories and remembrances
illustrate this extreme humility:
When Rav Aharon
was inducted in the IDF, Rav Amital went to pay him a visit on his base. Rav
Amital, who was an officer, visited the base and asked to see “The Rav
Lichtenstein.” “Rav who? What Rav?” was the response. Rav Amital made a
few quick inquiries, and discovered that Rav Aharon Lichtenstein, Rosh Yeshiva
of Har Etzion and one of the leaders of the Hesder movement, was in the
kitchen, washing dishes. When it was made clear to the base commander exactly
who it was that was washing the dishes, the kitchen didn’t want to let him go:
He was the best dishwasher ever to serve in the IDF. Like everything else he
did, Rav Aharon invested every bit of himself, heart and soul, 100%, into the
task he had been assigned. He had no expectation that he would be assigned any
more lofty position, nor did he feel that his assignment was in any way
demeaning. (Subsequently, I heard that he himself would wash the dishes after
Shabbat dinner at home so that none of the other members of the household would
grow to resent Shabbat.)
On more than one
occasion, when driving with Rav Amital, Rav Aharon was stopped and questioned;
to those not familiar with them, it seemed clear that Rav Aharon –clean-shaven
and in “regular” clothing – was the Rosh Yeshiva’s driver. It never dawned upon
outsiders that he himself was a Rosh Yeshiva - but he knew who he was, and he
had a very keen awareness of his abilities, his calling, and his mission. He
knew that his task was to teach and spread Torah. Real anavah - real
modesty – does not mean that a person devalues their own worth; real modesty
means that despite being self-aware, an anav does not believe that he or
she deserves special treatment. A story is told about Rav Moshe Feinstein, who
was seen travelling on the subway one evening. When a surprised talmid asked, “Where
is the Rosh Yeshiva going?” Rav Moshe explained that he was on the way to the
wedding of a child of one of his former students who had passed away. The
family had sent an invitation as a courtesy; they did not imagine that Rav
Moshe would actually attend – and most certainly did not dream that he would
use public transportation to get there. Rav Moshe understood how happy it would
make the hatan and kalla to see him, but it never occurred to him
to ask that they arrange for him to be escorted or transported in any way. He
knew full well what the impact of his attendance at the wedding would be; he
simply did not consider asking anyone else to be inconvenienced on his behalf. Rav
Moshe knew he was the Gadol haDor; he knew his presence would bring
honor and joy to the family. The family in question would most certainly have
been honored to arrange for transportation, but Rav Moshe was an anav;
he knew who he was, was aware of the power of his position, but did not think
he deserved special treatment.
So, too, Rav
Aharon knew who he was. He was fully engaged in the world around him, and knew
his place in it and the responsibility that place engendered. On the other
hand, he would not even let his talmidim carry any of the dozens of
books he invariably brought to shiur. Once, a talmid intended to
do just that: He placed his own sefer on top of the pile of Rav Aharon’s
books, but before he could pick up the pile, Rav Aharon headed off - carrying
his own books, and the student’s Gemara as well.
When my father
came on aliya over 20 years ago, he went to see Rav Lichtenstein. They had been
friendly when they were younger, had been in college together. Even then, my
father tells me, there was a sense of awe when one spoke to the 19-year-old
Aharon Lichtenstein. Despite this awe, upon arriving in Israel, my father paid
Rav Aharon a visit. At the very beginning of their conversation, my father
asked: “How should I address you? What should I call you?” Rav Aharon
considered the question for a moment, and replied: “Call me Aharon.” They had
been, and continued to be friendly. And so, my father called him “Aharon,” and
they were, in fact, good friends – to the extent that such a friendship was
possible: For the next 20 years my father diligently attended Rav Aharon’s shiur
in the Gruss Kollel. My father often drove him to and from shiur, and I
believe the enjoyment of their relationship was mutual. Nonetheless, from the
moment my father began attending the shiur, he could no longer call him
“Aharon” – only “Rebbe.” “Call me Aharon,” he had said, with nonchalance, with
no airs about him, like an old friend in a rekindled relationship – but my
father knew that he was in the company of the Gadol haDor - and you just
don’t call the Gadol haDor “Aharon,”
even if he himself doesn’t think he deserves any honor.
Rav Aharon had
self-awareness; over the years, he came to understand that his intellectual
gifts surpassed those of others, but
he felt he was put on this earth to learn and teach Torah, so that is what he
did. And when you learn and teach Torah for 81 years, 15, 16, even 17 hours a
day with diligence, day after day, year after year; and when you give shiur
- always holding back, keeping your own chidushim to yourself and
sacrificing the spotlight for pedagogical purposes, to enable your students to learn
how to learn; when you give more shiurim than seems humanly possible -
each one deep, fully developed and polished to perfection, complete, a
masterpiece, ready for publication; and when you raise a seemingly impossible
number of students - and not just students, but leaders – and despite all of
this you don’t think you deserve anything more than anyone else – only then do
you reach the level that Rav Lichtenstein, in his modesty, attained.
There were other
aspects of his personal comportment that were a source of inspiration to me,
and to so many others: To see him dance on Friday night after davening was
to witness holiness. With all his being, he would dance, singing the words of
each nigun with intense kavanah. Some of us don’t even notice
that the nigunim we dance to have words! He had more kavanah
while dancing than most of us have at Ne’ilah. I apologize if this
sounds like a hasid talking about his rebbe, but Rav Aharon’s dancing, like his
davening, were charged with such kavanah and hitlahavut that
it left an indelible impression of holiness on us all. This, too, was one of
the ways that knowing Rav Aharon made all the stories of gedolim I had heard
seem possible, seem true.
Rav Aharon would
give so much tzedaka that it often led to misunderstandings: His son told me that once someone knocked at
the door of their home and asked for assistance. Rav Aharon gladly gave the man
some money, but the person asked for more. It gradually became clear that the
poor person was under the impression that Rav Lichtenstein was a wealthy man
with a foundation set up to provide for the poor. It never occurred to him that
this was a Rosh Yeshiva, living on a Yeshiva salary. The man said, “This is your
tzedaka. What about money from the foundation?”
In addition to
his largesse, he would engage his visitors in conversation. He would make
practical inquiries to help the person get a job, training or education. He
once remarked, “My grandchildren will not be able to support your
grandchildren. We must break the cycle of poverty.” Still, there were people
who called and asked for their ‘weekly allowance.’
He had so many
students, it would have been only natural if he had lacked the time or
emotional energy for them all; this was most definitely not the case. He was
totally dedicated to his students, despite physical distance and intellectual disparity.
The last time I spoke with Rav Aharon was at a celebration in honor of his 80th
birthday. Hundreds of students stood in line, hoping to say a word and wish him
well (especially after his previous illness). He saw me among the crowd, took
my hand and said, “I am extremely pleased to see how productive you are,
producing works rooted in text and rooted in values.” I was surprised that he
knew what I was up to, but I should not have been; despite his age and his
failing health, he kept abreast of what his students were doing, and he had the
kindness to encourage them with beautiful, thoughtful words. We had all come to
honor our rebbe, and he took the time to bestow honor and praise on his
students. Knowing Rav Lichtenstein, these were words of the highest praise,
because these were his highest goals: Fidelity to the text and to Torah values.
Rav Aharon was,
by nature, very shy. He sometimes mumbled, making it difficult to understand
him, and people who spoke to him one-on-one often were forced to ask him to
repeat himself a few times so they could understand what he was saying. Some
may have misread his shyness, and thought he was aloof; he was not aloof at
all. When he spoke publicly he overcame his natural shyness, and he was always approachable.
However, as many of his students can attest, people thought twice about
approaching him because they didn’t want to disturb him or his learning. There
was a sense of awe, a sense of standing in the presence of greatness: “How can
I waste his precious time?”
One of my fellow
talmidim in the Yeshiva had devised a way to speak with Rav Aharon
without disturbing him or stealing his precious time: He would hitch a ride
with him to Jerusalem, enjoying Rav Aharon’s undivided attention for the 45
minute journey, and then turn around and take the bus back to the Yeshiva.
Years later, I unwittingly did my friend one better: I was travelling to New
York on a Saturday night El Al flight. I settled into my seat with a Gemara,
figuring that I would learn daf yomi (followed by a movie to help me
fall asleep)… and Rav Lichtenstein sat down beside me – in coach, not first class,
not business class. With only an empty seat between us, we had hours of
uninterrupted time to converse (Thank God I had my Gemara with me!).
At the time of
this fortuitous flight, I was leading a weekly habura/shiur on Rav
Hutner’s Pahad Yitzchak. I had studied in Mesifta Rabbi Chaim Berlin as
a teenager, and so had vivid memories of Rav Hutner, but I had never had a personal
relationship with him. I had observed him speak, but was unable to understand
his “ma’amar,” which was delivered in Yiddish. Interestingly enough, the
group of Israelis with whom I was learning Pahad Yitzchak had chosen
this text precisely because it is written in beautiful Hebrew; we were enjoying
it immensely, both for the content and for the accessibility of the language.
In addition, I told Rav Lichtenstein, I was happy to be able, after so many
years, to study the works of his rebbe as I connected them mentally to the
visual experience I remembered from my youth: Finally, I could understand the
content of what had once been, for me, just a “show.” Upon hearing this, Rav
Lichtenstein became animated: “But the show is the thing,” he cried. He then
proceeded to do a Rav Hutner imitation, all the while explaining the pedagogic
strategy Rav Hutner had employed: “First,
Rav Hutner always gave his shiur in a room that was too small for the
number of students. In order to lend the shiur a sense of importance, he
preferred that the room be crowded, to the point of ‘standing room only.’ Rav
Hutner would be sure to arrive late, when people were already getting anxious:
He would burst into the room and make his way through the assembled, expectant
crowd to the desk in the front of the room.” At this point Rav Lichtenstein not
only recalled and recounted the scene, he reenacted it: “And then, Rav Hutner
would sit at his desk, take off his glasses, throw them on the table, and hold
his forehead in his hand, rocking back and forth, back and forth, slowly, in
absolute silence.” As he said this, Rav Lichtenstein acted out the scene,
removed his own glasses, and threw them down on the tray-table, and held his
head with his hand. “And the tension would rise to a crescendo. And then,
suddenly, the words would burst forth and the talk would begin!” This
reenactment was one of the most hilarious things I had ever seen: Here, at
20,000 feet, was Rav Lichtenstein doing a Rav Hutner impersonation, but it was
not intended to be comical or disrespectful. Rav Aharon recalled the mannerisms
of his revered teacher and recreated the scene with simultaneous pedagogical
commentary and explanation.
I personally did
not maintain as close a relationship with Rav Aharon as I could have over the
years; I simply did not want to bother him. But I always knew that if a really
serious question arose (and they did on occasion), his shoulders could bear the
burden. He would give me a clear answer, a well-reasoned and unassailable
decision. There would be no second guessing; his was a Torah-mandated answer.
It was comforting to know he was only a phone call away.
When I wrote my
second book, my brother, Rav Yair, read through an advance copy and noticed
that Rav Lichtenstein was not among those who had given haskamot for the
first book. He was upset, and he gave me mussar: “Why don’t you ask Rav
Lichtenstein?” “I don’t want to bother
him,” I said, to which my brother responded, “I will go and bother him.” The haskama
Rav Aharon wrote was beautiful and important, but also somewhat
embarrassing: He referred to me as “Rabbi Ari Kahn,” but signed his own name
“Aharon Lichtenstein.” He was too modest to use official stationery of any
kind; the haskama was written on plain white paper, but his secretary
handed it to me along with a blank sheet of stationary, with the
understanding that these two pages should go together. She had already become
accustomed to his modesty.
These were his
personal midot –anava, humility,
generosity, hatmadah, respect for parents and teachers, dedication to
students - and he acted upon them in every aspect of his life. His personal midot
formed the personality of the Yeshiva, and impacted each and every student
who learned there. His midot were translated into the spiritual life of
the Yeshiva, as well its social and political awareness, the mission and raison
d’etre of the Yeshiva. Rav Lichtenstein himself recounted a seminal moment,
in which midot crystallized into a mission:
A couple of
years after we moved to Yerushalayim, I was once walking with my family in the
Beit Yisrael neighborhood, where R. Isser Zalman Meltzer used to live. For the
most part, it consists of narrow alleys. We came to a corner, and found a
merchant stuck there with his car. The question came up as to how to help him;
it was a clear case of perika u-te’ina (helping one load or unload his
burden). There were some youngsters there from the neighborhood, who judging by
their looks were probably ten or eleven years old. They saw that this merchant
was not wearing a kippa. So they began a whole pilpul, based on the Gemara
in Pesachim (113b), about whether they should help him or not. They said, “If
he walks around bareheaded, presumably he doesn’t separate terumot
u-ma’asrot, so he is suspect of eating and selling untithed produce. . .”
I wrote R. Soloveitchik a letter at that time, and told him of the
incident. I ended with the comment, “Children of that age from our camp would
not have known the Gemara, but they would have helped him.” My feeling then
was: Why, Ribbono shel Olam, must this be our choice? Can’t we find children
who would have helped him and still know the Gemara? Do we have to choose? I
hope not; I believe not. If forced to choose, however, I would have no doubts
where my loyalties lie: I prefer that they know less Gemara, but help him.
That is a
mouthful from a Rosh yeshiva, but for Rav Lichtenstein, when all was said and
done, decency, midot, came first. Without decency, learning is barren, a
mere intellectual exercise.
Rav Lichtenstein
was the straightest, most honest human being I have ever met, which may account
for the fact that his influence was far more limited than it should have been: Who
could dare bring questions regarding business transactions to Rav Aharon? Before
posing the question, you could be sure how the answer would be framed: You must
do the right thing, the decent thing. People were probably embarrassed to pose
some of these types of questions to a man whose ethical standards were so high.
Who would want to live up to Rav Aharon’s values and expectations? Who could? His
moral and ethical compass was exact, absolute; he would not deviate one iota in
his personal conduct, and this set a standard the rest of us only pray to
approach.
This brings us
to the question of Rav Aharon’s long-term influence. One can only wonder what
would have happened if he had stayed in America. How would that community have
been impacted? What would have happened had he not come to Israel? Although
“what if” is surely a game of guesswork, I believe that ultimately his impact
was greater, having made the choice to come to Israel, than it would have been had
he remained in the United States.
Yeshivat Har
Etzion, born of the unparalleled cooperation between Rav Aharon and Rav Yehudah
Amital, attracted Israel’s best and brightest young men (and later women in
Migdal Oz). Rav Aharon’s methodology, his rigorous approach to learning and
absolute dedication to Torah values, forged these outstanding young students
into an intellectual elite that continues to impact every level of Israeli
society, in the fields of education, medicine, law, business and academia, and
of course in terms of religious education and Torah study at every level.
In a tragic sense,
though, Rav Lichtenstein was underappreciated in his lifetime. The National
Religious camp did not consider him “Zionist” enough; he lacked
the requisite Mercaz Harav credentials. He was never “religious enough” for the
religious, nor was he “secular enough” for the secularists; the hair-splitting
list could go on and on. If the secularists would have fathomed how great a
humanist Rav Lichtenstein was, there would have been crying and mourning in the
streets of Tel Aviv on the day of his passing. But he was a real humanist, not
an opportunist; he did not take a particular position in order to further any
particular agenda. There never was a political agenda.
One illustrative
example of how this “problem” set Rav Aharon apart from, and often at odds with
other National Religious leaders appears in “Leaves of Faith.” In “A Rabbinic Exchange
on Boruch Goldstein’s Funeral,” Rav Aharon decried the religious community’s
response to the murder of Muslim worshipers, which included a hero’s funeral
with glowing eulogies for the perpetrator of the Machpela Cave massacre. Rav
Lichtenstein penned a letter questioning how, after committing such a heinous
act, and in the wake of such chilul Hashem, the perpetrator could receive
such lavish praise. Rav Aharon wrote from a very personal place, and not as a
Rosh Yeshiva or public figure; he did not believe his opinion deserved more
weight because of his own personal standing. Rather, his personal moral compass
compelled him to speak out:
“It is impossible, from a personal and moral stance to remain silent.”
His protest
(written to the heads of the yeshivot hesder who had remained silent)
was met with derision. Who was Rav Lichtenstein to raise such issues? As someone
who had expressed willingness to accept a peace process and, by extension,
accept terrorists as “partners,” it was Rav Lichtenstein who, in their minds,
had been guilty of a terrible chilul Hashem. His political opinions
placed him beyond the pale; as far as they were concerned, he had no right to
speak about this issue.
Their response
is astounding, not only for its unmitigated chutzpah, but because it displayed the
respondents’ inability to respect or even consider any approach that differed
from their own, causing them to become smug and self-righteous. Rav
Lichtenstein, however, neither abandoned his moral position nor allowed them to
derail the debate. If, he responded, they take issue only with him, the
messenger, and not with the message he hoped to convey, why was the entire
network of Roshei Yeshiva Hesder silent? Why had they not taken a moral
stand in the matter of Boruch Goldstein, when they were quite capable of
speaking out - quickly and loudly - in other matters?
Rav Aharon was
the voice calling out in the wilderness, attempting to open the eyes of his
colleagues to the moral imperatives of decency and humanism. Sadly, they could
not understand him.
Rav Aharon’s
Zionism did, in fact, differ from that of much of the National Religious camp:
While so much of religious Zionism is based on ideology, his vision was
tempered with pragmatism. The debate might have played out something like
this: One side would say, “We own every
inch of Eretz Yisrael,” a position with which Rav Lichtenstein would fully and readily
agree. His question would be, “What price are you willing to pay in order to
hold on to every inch?”
He related an
exchange he had had with a hitchhiker he had picked up along the road to
Jerusalem. When the young man realized that his driver was none other than Rav
Lichtenstein, he decided to “educate” him as to the error of his political
opinions. “Seeing me in the car was like waving a red flag in front of a bull… Don’t
you know that Eretz Yisrael is ours?” he asked. Rav Lichtenstein asked this fellow
only one question: “How many lives are you willing to sacrifice in order to
hold on to Eretz Yisrael? 10? 100? 1000? 10000? A million? Every Jew? One Jew
would remain and live in Eretz Yisrael hashelayma – does that seem
equitable? Logical?”
The fact that he
was prepared to even consider such a question caused ideological purists to be
upset with him, but Rav Aharon approached this issue the way he approached
every issue: He looked at every problem from all possible perspectives. They
dismissed his opinion, accused him of chilul Hashem; they were unable to
hear, and even less, to understand his demand for decency. They overlooked his
greatness.
Without Rav
Aharon in it, the world has lost so much hatmada; the world has lost so
much hesed; the world has lost so much tzedaka; the world has
lost so much kavanah. It is absolutely impossible for any one person to
fill the vacuum created by his passing, but if every single person resolves to learn
a little more - or a lot more, and if every one of us davens with a lot
more kavanah, if every single person decides to do a lot more hesed,
and if every person gives a lot more tzedaka, we can begin to talk about
filling the void.
To conclude, I
urge you to do one more thing: Many people have said that The Rov was easy to
understand when he spoke but was difficult to read. Rav Aharon, on the other
hand, was often difficult to understand in person, but his written legacy is
accessible. I urge you to read, and to learn. Rather than listening passively to
those who feel compelled to speak about him, as I and so many of his talmidim
do, open his sefarim. Read the articles. Connect to his great neshama
through his own words.
May his memory
continue to be a blessing.
זכר צדיק לברכה -הריני
כפרת משכבו
רמב"ם
הלכות סנהדרין פרק ב
הלכה ו
-כשם שבית דין מנוקין בצדק כך צריכין להיות מנוקין מכל מומי הגוף,
וצריך להשתדל ולבדוק ולחפש שיהיו כולן בעלי שיבה בעלי קומה, בעלי מראה, נבוני לחש,
ושידעו ברוב הלשונות כדי שלא תהא סנהדרין שומעת מפי התורגמן.
הלכה ז
- בית דין של שלשה אף על פי שאין מדקדקין בהן בכל אלו הדברים צריך שיהא
בכל אחד מהן שבעה דברים ואלו הן: חכמה, וענוה, ויראה, ושנאת ממון, ואהבת האמת,
ואהבת הבריות להן, ובעלי שם טוב, וכל אלו הדברים מפורשין הן בתורה, הרי הוא אומר
אנשים חכמים ונבונים הרי בעלי חכמה אמור, וידועים לשבטיכם אלו שרוח הבריות נוחה
מהם, ובמה יהיו אהובים לבריות בזמן שיהיו בעלי עין טובה, ונפש שפלה, וחברתן טובה,
ודבורן ומשאן בנחת עם הבריות, ולהלן הוא אומר אנשי חיל אלו שהן גבורים במצות
ומדקדקים על עצמם וכובשין את יצרן עד שלא יהא להן שום גנאי ולא שם רע ויהא פרקן
נאה, ובכלל אנשי חיל שיהיה להן לב אמיץ להציל עשוק מיד עושקו כענין שנאמר ויקם משה
ויושיען, ומה משה רבינו עניו אף כל דיין צריך להיות עניו, יראי אלהים כמשמעו,
שונאי בצע אף ממון שלהם אינן נבהלין עליו, ולא רודפין לקבץ הממון, שכל מי שהוא
נבהל להון חסר יבואנו, אנשי אמת שיהיו רודפין אחר הצדק מחמת עצמן בדעתן, אוהבין את
האמת ושונאין את החמס ובורחין מכל מיני העול.
Halacha 6
Just as the judges of a court must
be on the highest level of righteousness; so, too, must they be unsullied by
any physical blemishes.
An effort should be made that they
all be white-haired, of impressive height, of dignified appearance, men who
understand whispered matters, who understand many different languages so that
the Sanhedrin will not need to hear testimony from
an interpreter.
Halacha 7
We are not careful to demand that a
judge for a court of three possess all these qualities. He must, however,
possess seven attributes: wisdom, humility, the fear of God, a loathing for
money, a love for truth; he must be a person who is beloved by people at large,
and must have a good reputation.
All of these qualities are mentioned
explicitly in the Torah. When relating Moses' statements concerning the
appointment of judges, Deuteronomy
1:13 mentions: "Men of wisdom and understanding." This
refers to wisdom.
The verse continues: "Beloved
by your tribes." This refers to those who are appreciated by people at
large. What will make them beloved by people? Conducting themselves with a
favorable eye and a humble spirit, being good company, and speaking and
conducting their business with people gently.
When relating Jethro's advice
to Moses to appoint judges, Exodus
18:21 speaks of "men of power." This refers to people who
are mighty in their observance of the mitzvot, who are very demanding of
themselves, and who overcome their evil inclination until they possess no
unfavorable qualities, no trace of an unpleasant reputation, even during their
early manhood, they were spoken of highly. The phrase "men of power"
also implies that they should have a courageous heart to save an oppressed
person from the one oppressing him, as Exodus 2:17 states: "And
Moses arose and delivered them."
Just as we see that Moses was
humble; so, too, every judge should be humble. Exodus 18:21 continues:
"God-fearing" - the intent is obvious. It mentions: "men who
hate profit," i.e., people who do not become overly concerned even about
their own money. They do not pursue the accumulation of money, for anyone who
is overly concerned about wealth will ultimately be overcome by want.
The
verse continues: "men of truth," i.e., people who pursue justice
because of their own inclination; they love truth, hate crime, and flee from
all forms of crookedness.
”אבא רכב 500 קילומטרים על אופניים בשבת והציל את חיינו
“
אבא, ד"ר יחיאל
ליכטנשטיין, נולד בפולין אך גדל בגרמניה. הוא הקפיד על קלה כחמורה ועם זאת היה גם
מעורה בתרבות העולם. בשנות השלושים עשה תואר דוקטור בשוויצריה בנושא השפעת
התנ"ך על המחזאי הצרפתי בן המאה ה-17, ז"אן רסין.
כבר בשנת תרפ"ח פרסמת ב'הנאמן'
מאמר - הוא הופיע במקרה, תיכף אחרי מאמר של מו"ר לעתיד, ר' יצחק הוטנר
ז"ל, ובאותו גליון אף פרסם, בין היתר, ד"ר נתן בירנבוים ז"ל - בשם,
"בת ישראל לפנים והיום". ואלו דבריך:
"מקום חשוב מאוד תופסת שאלת האשה אצלנו היהודים.
האשה הישראלית
תאחד בקרבה כוחות הפכיים, סותרים זה לזה, אשר פעולתם הנגדית חזקה מאד: רגע יגבר זה
ורגע יגבר אויבו בן איתנים; האשה נמשלת לעפר ולכוכבים, כשהיא יורדת, יורדת עד
לעפר, וכשהיא עולה, עולה עד לשמים.
מרום ותהום, קדושה וטומאה, צניעות ופריצות משמשים
אצלה בערבוביה. המתווך היחידי שבין הכוחות האלה, התלויים כחוט השערה אחד בשני, הוא
- האשה עצמה. רק היא יכולה להפרידם בשמשה בתור גבול ביניהם.
ישנן נשים אשר מהותן היא גבולן ויש נשים אשר
גבולן הוא מהותן".
ובמאמר שני, שנכתב כהמשך, הוספת:
"תשים נא האשה העברייה הנוכחית לב לדעה הזאת ותלמד
ממנה, שיש בידה להיטיב את מצבה, רק אם תשתכלל, תשתלם ותסתגל לאותן החובות הקדושות
המוטלות עליה, למען תוכל למלאן כראוי... תפקידה הכי חשוב של האשה הוא החינוך -
בניין בית ישראל. אולם מסרו לידה את החינוך ולא נתנו לה את היכולת לחנך. גורלה
למלא תפקיד של מחנך, אשר עליו נאמר, 'שותפו של הקדוש ברוך הוא', 'מלאך ה'
צבאות ', הנוכל להעריך את חשיבות העבודה הזאת? - עת אשר דרושים כוחות
ענקיים בכדי למלא עבודה קדושה זו, ניגשת האשה הישראלית, ענייה בדעת ה' ובידיעות
היהדות, חדורה בדעות הזמן, וממלאה אותה... אותם האנשים הדורשים מאת האשה הישראלית
קידוש השם בחייה ושתחנך באופן הראוי את ילדיהם - האנשים האלה מבטלים לגמרי את האשה,
אינם מתחשבים עם דעתה ואין נענים לדרישותיה ולבקשותיה... ולכן - ההצלה היחידה לבת
ישראל הנוכחית היא - פיתוח כוחותיה הרוחניים ברוח התורה והיהדות" .
בוהל אמור היה להשיג לנו אזרחות
צרפתית. ברוב תמימות חשבו אז כי אזרחות כזו תגן עלינו. מסיבה זו החליט אבא לצאת
למארסיי, מרחק 500 קילומטר על אופניים. אבא לא היה טיפוס אתלטי, כולו רוח ולימוד.
הנסיעה היתה בשבת וכל ימיו היה אבא גאה על אותו חילול שבת שנעשה להצלתנו.
אזרחות צרפתית אבא לא קיבל אבל
ויזות כניסה לארצות הברית הוא קיבל. אבא ייחס את קבלת הויזות למאמצים שעשה אחיו,
דוד מרדכי, שהתגורר בארצות הברית. האח הצליח למצוא קהילה יהודית בממפיס טנסי,
שחבריה התחייבו שאם נבוא לארצות הברית לא נהיה לנטל על השלטונות.
“חיינו אז בשיקגו
באמצע שנות הארבעים, אחרי שבקושי ובדוחק עברנו את ייסורי הקליטה הראשונים כפליטים
בארצות הברית, והתחלנו לראשונה לראות קרן אור כלכלית. באמצע שנתנו השנייה שם, נכחת
בחתונת אחד המחנכים המרכזיים שבקהילה - חתונה שבה צעדו החתן והכלה לחופה לצלילי המנון
הנישואים המקובל בתרבות האמריקאי, ‘Here Comes the Bride.’ נדהמת, התאפקת; אך עם בואך הביתה הכרזת בהחלטיות: "לא ירד בני
עמכם" - במקום הזה לא יתחנכו ילדיי. וכך, טרם נראה סיכוי פרנסה באופק וחרף
קשיים חמורים צפויים, נפל הפור.“
“עוד לפני שנתיים שלוש, עמדת לנסוע עם הדסה לאיזו חנוכת הבית בעמנואל. בנקודת
המוצא היה אי-סדר אדיר, קהל גדול מתרוצץ, לחץ להיכנס לאוטובוסים דחוסים. הדסה
הציעה שאולי, אולי לא כדאי ללכת. אך או אז הזדקפת והזדקרת מלוא קומתך וקבעת בנחישות:
"בלומא שוורץ אינה מוותרת!"”
