Looking Before and After

By

A wealthy and patriotic Texan, the father of two talented sons, wanted them to attend West Point. They, for their part, very much sought to learn at a . They compromised — so the word ran at Chaim Berlin, where I learned prior to coming to — and the sons went to Yitzhak Elchanan. It was a pallid joke, reflecting the brand of condescending chauvinism, then very much in vogue, whose diminution could much enrich the world; and, from an objective standpoint, it was, in many respects, offensive. No one questioned the stellar lomdishe credentials of the RIETS staff. Its members having, collectively, mostly come from premier Lithuanian yeshivot — Radin, Telshe, Slabodka, Mir, et al — were acknowledged to be fine talmidei hakhamim, including disciples of the Hafetz Hayim, R. , and the Brisker , as well as the erstwhile rabbanim of Lomza and Suvalk. Above all loomed the towering figure of the Rav, regarded by the talmidim at Chaim Berlin with a measure of ambivalence bordering on suspicion, but unequivocally referred to by the Rosh ha-Yeshiva, mori ve- R. Yitzhak Hutner, as one of the gedolei ha-dor. Moreover, it was clear that the great scholars at “Yitzhak Elchanan” taught much Torah to serious talmidim; and, finally, at a time when so many of those learning at the major Brooklyn yeshivot also went to college, the quest for higher secular education per se did not disqualify for entry into the world of benei To r a h . Why, then, the

Rabbi Dr. Aharon Lichtenstein, YC ‘53, RIETS ‘59, is the son-in-law of the late Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik and the of in Alon Shevut, Israel. He is a Rosh Yeshiva at the Rabbi Isaac Elchanan Theological Seminary, where he lectures at the Joseph and Caroline Gruss Institute in . 231 232 My Yeshiva College: 75 Years of Memories putdown? And yet, judged retrospectively, by the standards to which we have become accustomed, the remark was not utterly without foundation. For, indeed, many of the ingredients endemic to the identity of a yeshiva and essential to maximal spiritual realization of its talmidim were then woefully inadequate at Yeshiva. Personally, together with many other budding benei Torah, I benefited immensely from the YU of the fifties, both spiritually and materially, and I am deeply indebted to all, from R. Dr. down, who sustained the institution and to those, within the yeshiva and within the college, who taught there. Jointly and concurrently, they put me on the road to lomdut and enabled me, upon graduation, to earn a doctorate during a four-year interlude at Harvard. However, inasmuch as I perceive this book as more history than autobiography, I feel bound to relate to a broader canvas. Nevertheless, I trust that these remarks will not be viewed as reeking of base ingratitude, but rather as retrospective evaluation. If space permitted, I ought perhaps have attempted an analysis of my total venue, academic as well as of the beit midrash. Inasmuch, however, as it does not — and, in any event, my expectations of the college were and are more limited, and my knowledge of its course far less familiar — my predominant emphasis shall be upon the yeshiva proper. Undoubtedly, at mid-century, at a time when the Torah world was perceived as having its shaky back to the wall and sociologists projected the bleakest of futures for it, YU contributed immeasurably to the cause of Yiddishkeit; woe would have befallen large segments of American Orthodoxy in its absence. And yet, internally, there is no question that the yeshiva side — particularly as regards its experiential and existential component — left much to be desired. Institutionally speaking, Shabbat and Yom To v were virtually nonexistent. During a period of over six years, I spent exactly one yom mo’ed, the Shabbat of an aufruf, at Yeshiva. Generally, the only ones who stayed with any frequency were the out-of- towners (I lived in Brooklyn) who were, in effect, incarcerated. On yamim nora’im, the local ba’alei batim appropriated the beit midrash and Lamport Auditorium for their tefillah, while the incipient and still miniscule Yeshiva minyan was held in a moderately sized classroom in Graduate Hall (since demolished) across 186th Street. The room was more than adequate, inasmuch as the great majority of the older bahurim took leave to officiate in outlying shuls, many with mixed pews — in part in order to service Aharon Lichtenstein 233 communities, but also, in part, in order to earn some money. On another front, the level of religious commitment at Yeshiva often left something to be desired. By way of example, it might be noted that one of the hottest issues raised during my freshman year in 1950 concerned an annual play presented by the Dramatics Society under the aegis of the dean. The vehement debate did not focus upon the drama proper but rather upon its character, that is, its serving as a social event to which dates would be brought en masse. The president of the Student Council was vigorously opposed. He had come to Yeshiva out of a secular high school in Bayside but had been turned on to Torah, and now found himself regarded by many peers as farfrumt. As regards Torah, there was much serious quality learning going on and some fine talmidei hakhamim being developed; but here, too, the scene was far from optimal. The entire library of the beit midrash was housed in the glass-enclosed bookcases at the southeastern corner. As to its population, the evening seder was woefully weak, with only a relative remnant staying on after 10:00 ma’ariv. There was no meaningful presence, with less than a minyan of RIETS students having joined a small group of European refugees who came to learn, pretty much as an independent unit, in the aforementioned Graduate Hall, and from 1954 to 1961 there was no kollel at all. For all intents and purposes, no one beyond the age of 24 could be found in the beit midrash. Prior to the introduction of the program in the mid-fifties, upon graduating from college, one learned Hullin and Yoreh De’ah while also learning and/ or reviewing ninety blatt over a two-year period, and then underwent a two-hour make-or-break oral behinah before leaving. Some of these deficiencies were signs of the times, barely intelligible to today’s generation. In 1950, Chaim Berlin did not yet have a kollel either, and the rosh yeshiva explained to me that he often had to present concepts to as yet unseasoned talmidim because if he waited till they ripened, he would discover that so many had left at age twenty-two. Of my 1948 high school graduating class, it was internally anticipated that only roughly half would remain shomrei Shabbat. At RIETS, however, there were additional aggravating factors. The most pressing was probably the issue of direction, personal and institutional. The cultural divide between the staff and the students was frightening. The mashgi’ah, a disciple of the Alter of Slabodka, was a genuine oved Hashem, but he never realized he had left Lithuania. He 234 My Yeshiva College: 75 Years of Memories was shocked to discover, for instance, that talmidim had radios in their dorm rooms. Many of the rebbeim did not identify with the institution and exerted little effort in seeking to mold it (staff meetings were a great rarity) or its denizens, whose language they simply could not fathom. It wasn’t a question of the King’s English — although that, too, could be a barrier. (One of the rebbeim once asserted that he knew enough to read the Post or the News but not the Times.) The divide was, rather, cultural. They had simply never heard of Robinson Crusoe or of Jackie Robinson. Some, like R. David Lifshitz, cared passionately about their talmidim and reached out to them with all their heart and soul. Many, however, were either indifferent or in despair, and left their students to fend for themselves. Of these, some groped successfully, but many either floundered in confusion or were beset with spiritual schizophrenia, torn between Torah and secular values and identity. At the apex were the two individuals who, each in his own way, both represented and articulated the ideology of Torah u-Madda — or, as it was then more commonly denominated, synthesis — the Rav and Dr. Belkin. Both were committed to the ideal, both sought to develop and initiate strategies for its implementation; and both regarded it as defining the character of Yeshiva University generally, and of RIETS and YC in particular. And yet, impressive as their pronouncements and achievements were, the students’ thirst was only partially slaked, and many of the hungry sheep looked up and were not sufficiently fed. Dr. Belkin, for his part, was burdened with overseeing the university and meeting its financial needs, and was driven by a passionate impulse to extend its bounds. The fifties saw the founding of SCW, JSS, AECOM, BSS, and AZG. These were notable achievements, but they consumed time and energies which were not available for regular contact with talmidim. Earlier, Dr. Belkin had been a stellar maggid shi’ur, and in 1950-1 he sought to revive this position with a regular shi’ur on Yoreh De’ah. However, he had to give it up in fairly short order, and he remained, sadly, captain of a ship with whose crew and passengers he had little dialogue. The Rav’s situation was, of course, entirely different. He was, as the melamed of his favorite self-image, peerless, and his contact with those of us fortunate enough to learn from him was not only direct but electrifying. He was at or near his zenith and the pace could be exacting. During my first year in the shi’ur, 1950-1, in just four weekly hours, he covered all of massekhet Niddah. What we heard, as well as the sheer experience Aharon Lichtenstein 235 of being in the shi’ur, was inspiring. Moreover, he was sensitive to his talmidim’s basic existential concerns and the complexity of their cultural situation. I don’t know whether he could have identified Jackie Robinson, but of Robinson Crusoe he not only knew but eventually wrote. Hence, he could and indeed did serve as a spiritual polestar. And yet, at the plane of institutional leadership, his role was also limited. He set a tone but he did not take charge. He did not conceive of himself as the head, titular or practical, of RIETS, and even if he had, it is questionable that he could have discharged the duties of the office effectively. He conceived the semikhah program and initiated its implementation in mid-decade, but, on the whole, the demands of such a role — overseeing faculty, tracking talmidim, the nuts and bolts of curricular planning, periodically addressing the student body, and, consistent and meaningful interpersonal contact with a wide range of individual students — were not his cup of tea. He knew all this was important, but that was not his strength. And even if it were, the role simply could not be filled in the course of a weekly twenty-eight hour sojourn in New York. Hence, at that time, his impact beyond his own talmidim was limited, and many boys found themselves meandering from one rebbe to another, developing no ongoing relationship with any spiritual mentor — in effect, having, in the broader sense of the term, no Rosh Yeshiva. I do not present this summary catalogue in order to be pote’ah bi- genut, per se. I do so, rather, in order to lay the groundwork for being messayem bi-shevah. As I enter the main beit midrash, filled from pillar to post with eager talmidim poring over a Gemara or a Rambam, their excited exclamations filling the air with cacophonous discourse, in my mind’s eye I recall so many late hours spent in the solitary company of Sam Aronson, the janitor who cleaned the Beit Midrash; as I survey the treasure trove of the sefarim lining the walls in serried rows and compare them to the paltry resources at our disposal, as I confront a phalanx of multilayered kollelim, each plowing through and mastering one or more hadrei Torah and headed by a senior rebbe, my memory flashes back to our humble birth. I recall opening the resuscitated kollel with seven members, with myself, barely five years older than they, primus inter pares, in charge, and my heart distends with pride, with joy, and with hope. Indeed, messayem bi-shevah — first and foremost, to the Ribbono Shel Olam, and, at a very different plane, by reflecting on a number of salient factors which, over a period of time, enabled the remarkable transmutation to which I, inter 236 My Yeshiva College: 75 Years of Memories alia, can bear witness. At the risk of omission of some deserving persons or forces, let me note some of the more prominent. Several go back to the late 50s and early 60s. At the general plane, it was around that time that the efflorescence of , accompanied by greater commitment to dikduk concerning halakhic observance, began to be felt across a broad front, including that of modern Orthodoxy. This has unquestionably been a major impetus for enhancing the Torah level of our camp; while some insist upon denigrating this development as a “drift to the right,” benei Torah should be able to appreciate its positive aspect. On our home turf, I would single out, in addition to the consolidation of the three-year semikhah program, at least three factors. The first is the gradual escalation in the Rav’s involvement in talmud Torah proper at Yeshiva. From two weekly shi’urim for a single class of some thirty students, he moved, upon the initiation of the semikhah program, to having two weekly shi’urim for each of two separate classes; even when, largely for reasons of health, he eventually reverted to a single class, it included, for many years, close to a hundred participants. Subsequently, he started saying a shi’ur three days a week. Still later, after his wife’s untimely death in 1967, he became even more deeply immersed in harbatzat Torah, saying almost daily shi’urim for talmidim who would come to Boston to learn during the summer, and lengthening many of the regular New York shi’urim to three hours or more. It was during the sixties and the seventies that most of his premier students developed (I won’t list any names for fear of offending an oversight, but serious Yeshiva University benei Torah know whom I have in mind), and this reflected the changed climate in one sense and contributed to it in another. Second, the advent of R. to the RIETS staff in 1960 had a powerful effect upon the yeshiva. His great learning and impeccable zidkut contributed much, but one should take particular note of his weekly hashkafah shi’urim, which dealt with basic issues, on the one hand, and with contemporary problems, on the other. While he only stayed for six years before moving on to , these discourses, attended by many who were not necessarily in his regular Gemara shi’ur, charged the atmosphere and molded many serious seekers. Just ask Daniel Tropper in Jerusalem or David Berger in New York. Third, the revival of the kollel in 1961 had a multiple positive effect. Its members were almost all in the Rav’s shi’ur, and that constituted their Aharon Lichtenstein 237 primary commitment. However, inclusion in the additional framework enriched and intensified their learning, provided a forum for self- expression, infused esprit de corps, and raised the demands they made upon themselves in the present and the hopes they entertained for the community for the future. Suffice it to note that almost all of the current Yeshiva rebbeim of the relevant age group entered the kollel’s portals in the sixties. Beyond the decade, the gradual and natural changing of the guard, through the appointment of American-bred and Yeshiva-trained rebbeim, had a cumulative salutary effect. To the chagrin of some, the transition did not necessarily usher in the more liberal climate they had anticipated upon the retirement of the European cadre. On the contrary, the molding of a faculty which, as compared to the relative laissez-faire attitude of is predecessors, was more engaged, knowledgeable, and articulate with respect to the college and the university, opened up the prospect for increased tension no less than for rapprochement. Nevertheless, from the students’ perspective, they now had the benefit of mentors who, by and large, were familiar with their language, shared their concerns, and understood, although not evenly so, their cultural needs. Many talmidim still complain of the lack of rapport, but, on the whole, their rebbeim are far better attuned to them than in the previous generation, and this has provided spiritual stimulus. Moreover, the faculty, despite methodological and ideological differences, has melded as a group, so that, while none of its members are within hailing distance of the Rav, it has a collective impact greater than in his day. Indeed, it is entirely possible that the absence of an overpowering figure has hastened the process of staff consolidation. With respect to personnel, a word should be said — and I hope it can be uttered without flattery and without inviting invidious comparisons — about the role of the administration. I refer, particularly, to R. and R. . I know that the former has, at times, been at ideological loggerheads with some of the roshei yeshiva, and I understand their reservations about some of his decisions and pronouncements. And yet, if only for his remarkable success in keeping the institution afloat and solvent, American Orthodoxy is very much in his debt. But not only for that — in the spiritual realm, while he, like Dr. Belkin, has been more removed from the beit midrash than he would have liked, he has presided over a period of its growth and has contributed to it. He has projected a vision consonant with the religious needs of a broad spectrum of his 238 My Yeshiva College: 75 Years of Memories community, encouraged talmidim to learn in Eretz Yisrael, and significantly extended the bounds of Torah at Yeshiva by enabling the establishment of a range of kollelim. R. Charlop, for his part, has provided much-needed ongoing direction. Given his own variegated background, he has come remarkably close to being razui le-khol ehav, serving as a cohesive force between faculty, students, and general administration, and he has enjoyed the confidence of various constituencies. With shrewdness and efficiency, he has contributed incalculably to both stability and growth for over a generation; this, too, has enhanced the RIETS environment. Finally, as R. Lamm has noted on various occasions, the influence of the Israeli experience has been crucial. Back in the fifties or even the sixties, very few went to study in Israel. However, since the early-to-mid- seventies, going to learn for a year or longer in Israel has increasingly become almost de rigueur; this has, in turn, impacted powerfully upon the American Yeshiva University scene. The decision to go constitutes, in itself, an expression of commitment, and in the course of a concentrated period of talmud Torah, with relatively few digressions, that commitment is hopefully deepened. Hence, students return with greater zest and, especially, with different conceptions concerning what serious learning entails, and, consequently, with different habits. This element is most manifestly in evidence in the evening sedarim — and it is, perhaps, then, that the cacophony sounds most melodious. “Tho’ much is taken, much abides,” proclaimed Tennyson’s Ulysses. That is, in our case, self-evident. With respect to the quality and the scope of yir’at shamayim and talmud Torah, internally, there is never enough. Externally, much greater momentum needs to be generated with regard to our involvement with the broader community. In mid- century, modernists envisioned themselves as encamped at the center of Orthodoxy and reveled in the flattering thought that they were both leading and communally connected, while haredim were confined within their cloisters. However, in short order, and before Yeshiva circles took true notice, the latter seized the initiative and Yeshiva found itself in arrears. We certainly ought not begrudge the haredi world its accomplishments, but we need to do much more on this front. The attitude cited in the name of a prominent administrator to the effect that Yeshiva was an institution and not a movement, is, in the long run, both spiritually and institutionally negative. It is reflected in the mindset of some talmidim Aharon Lichtenstein 239 who equate moving west of New Jersey with exile to the Antipodes. We need to regain ground lost in hinnukh and rabbanut, and to break fresh ground in addition. There are, however, internal issues as well (although, in a sense, outreach, too, is an internal issue). Progress in the beit midrash has been purchased at a price — not, to my mind, inevitable, but real nonetheless. Concentration has been accompanied by constriction. On the one hand, it has manifested itself in insularity — the unwillingness or inability to imbibe from the reservoirs of Arnold’s conception of culture, “the best that has been thought and said in the world,” as constituting the hokhmah which can be found ba-goyim, and obtuseness to many of the concerns, pragmatic and spiritual, which beset the Jewish and general world on the other. In this connection, I am afraid we are witness to an erosion in religious Zionist fervor — admittedly, characteristic of American Orthodoxy as a whole, but especially disturbing at a Torah center. In a very different vein, constriction is, concomitantly, occasionally reflected in intolerance bordering on demonization with regard to spiritual opposition. And, contrary to the Rav’s legacy, it is manifested in the benign neglect with which many regard the learning of Ta n a k h and mahshavah. In part, constriction finds expression in superficial and simplistic personality, in the inability to recognize the complexity of thought and experience, and even in the difficulty of some to cope with life and to make meaningful decisions. And there are some who find the Yeshiva’s atmosphere to be disheartening — not quite depressing, but also not conducive to ivdu et Hashem be-simhah. These are serious concerns — not just superficially functional, but genuinely spiritual — and they require serious attention. I freely acknowledge, moreover, that, to an extent, they may have been engendered or encouraged by some of the very same factors which have served to vivify the beit midrash. With regard to my own sentiments, however, let there be no question. If forced to choose between the yeshiva and the college of my student generation and the present vintage, I need not hesitate for a moment. Ashreikhem, current students, she-zekhitem le-khakh. MY 75 YESHIVA YEARS OF COLLEGE MEMORIES

Edited by Menachem Butler and Zev Nagel

Introduction by Richard M. Joel With Afterword by Jonathan D. Sarna

Yashar Books, 2006