Remarks on the 10th yahrzeit of HaRav Aharon Lichtenstein, zt”l

When I speak to families before a funeral or after shiva, I often message that memory is dynamic. As we get further from intense memories—often involving end-of-life crises—those difficult times don’t disappear but they gain new context in the fullness of a person’s life. We gain perspective as we can more clearly see the person’s totality. We can suddenly focus upon long-hidden moments of health and strength as the cloud of frailty fades within a larger life picture.

As students of an adam gadol—an enormous tzadik, a towering gaon and a prodigious yashar, we face a similar opportunity and obligation. In the immediate aftermath of such a person’s passing, newspapers write articles and social media platforms light up. They grasp at easy summation and hot-takes—and these caricatures color how even we as talmidim digest our loss. “Yes—Rabbi Lichtenstein got a PhD at Harvard. Does that really belong in the first sentence of your profile of Rav Aharon?”

As we gather to honor Rav Aharon on the occasion of his 10th yahrzeit, the newspapers will not be writing profiles. It’s just us in the room—his talmidim. It is here that the real work begins. It is upon us to hear Esther’s demand in our rebbi’s voice kitvuni l’dorot—place me in my rightful position in the annals of Torah and yirat shamayim.

Every time we teach our rebbi’s Torah—katavnu l’dorot. Every time we keep his d’mut d’yekno before us as we fight off the yetzer hara within difficult decisions—katavnu l’dorot. Every time we allow the plaintive sound of his dirshu hashem b’himatzo to “source our faith itself”—katavnu l’dorot. Every time we lean upon his compassionate, courageous religious humanism to guide an individual um’lal or a community b’tzar—katavnu l’dorot.

That is our collective task today. And—ad meah v’esrim—it may be one of the most significant responsibilities and contributions in each of our individual lives. Yes, we may each have our own chidushim—but to be towards our rebbi—each in our own way—Rav Yehuda quoting Rav or l’havdil Boswell quoting Johnson—we might say about our contributions to the mesorah and to klal Yisrael—dayenu.

It is with this in mind that I would like to share one detail about our rebbi that I believe requires more attention. It’s not even a detail—it’s an emotion. Do you remember what it felt like to ask him a question? Not as the words came from your mouth—but as you prepared them within. The stress—even terror of walking over to him in the beit midrash or—lo alinu—knocking on the door of his office. “Discomfort” does not even begin to express that feeling.

Go there. Hold that memory.

Now this was strange, Rav Aharon was a kind and considerate man, to a fault. We saw his love for us in his soft gray eyes. Yet, we stood before him with a yirah that we reserved for no one else in our lives. (Let’s not even speak the word—tomar.) If we are honest, the discomfort went beyond opening our mouths. To stand in his presence was not easy. He carried in his bearing an honesty that exploded outward and could consume falsehoods. An example: My first meeting with Rav Aharon as an 11th-grade student applying to yeshiva… After I explained the Gemara that he had asked me to prepare, he asked me about myself. “What do you think of your high school?” “I like it, but I wish there was learning on Sunday mornings.” (I was pretty shtark back then.) “So, what do you do on Sunday mornings?” “I read the newspaper.” “You read the newspaper all morning?”

He modeled an intensity—not just intellectually and morally but also physically—as he barreled through the halls of yeshiva with two massive stacks of seforim—one under each arm—rushing to shiur like a linebacker half his age.

We all knew that he would get off airplanes and come straight to yeshiva to teach. I accompanied him one day when he taught shiur yomi, shiur klali, then went to Gruss, then gave a public lecture—each shiur was over two hours. I did the calculation—he spent more time that day teaching than breathing.

His hasmada and his commitment to his tafkid embodied an uncomfortable judgment—a judgement that he conducted first and foremost of himself—but also secondarily of us his talmidim who struggled and still struggle to live up to his example.

This judgement asked one basic question—“Am I serving my ultimate Master?” Rav Lichtenstein wrote on the pasuk—avadai hem asher hotzeiti otam me’eretz mitzrayim—“Servitude, pure and simple. That is His right, and that is our duty.” That was how Rav Aharon lived. We were afraid of that judgment. We are still afraid of that judgment.

While he contrasted avdut with the Torah’s valuing of human dignity and its high assessment of man’s place in the universe, this avdut created a truer humanism. This avdut—as embodied by our rebbi—was the greatest humanism. In these demands was encoded the unparalleled greatness that a person could achieve. Inasmuch as Hashem valued our service, we could value our own potential and reach to become truly worthy of Hashem, our Master.

Now, if we take a step back here, we are in dangerous territory. We are addressing the worst crime in today’s polite society—to judge. To judge ourselves is to feel discomfort. To judge others is to impose discomfort. To extend one’s reach beyond one’s grasp is to invite flailing failure. It is unsettling to have expectations. It is unhealthy—it makes you unhappy. If the secret to happiness is low expectations, where do high expectations lead?

They lead us to Hashem.

Rav Aharon taught and lived that “Halacha’s primal demand is the unconditional recognition that life that man himself, belongs to God.” Rav Aharon demanded that we experience life theocentric-ally and not anthropocentrically. Rav Aharon created a paradoxical theocentric humanism, and it was this vision of humankind reaching for Hashem—that gave dignity to man’s telos and form to man’s life-growth. Through learning and hard work we become worthy of our humanism and we form ourselves in relationship with our creator.

It is this point that is often lost in regard to human dignity—that it is not automatic—that it must be nurtured. We must build character in ourselves and in our students. We must live a humanism of mission, development and growth.

I conclude with an observation. Adam I is in decline. Human grandeur and expertise do not have the currency they did when we were putting men on the moon. The optimism of that time is not just in decline—it is under attack.

It is davka now that we need our loadstar—it is davka now that we must harness that difficult emotion—it is davka now that we must reach for our rebbi’s Torah and his unparalleled example of yirat shamayim and his vigorous pursuit of personal excellence. May we together use this day to mechazek one another in this most honorable and difficult task.

Rabbi Chaim Strauchler is the rabbi of Congregation Rinat Yisrael and associate editor for Tradition: A Journal of Orthodox Jewish Thought.