by Drs. Shmuel and Binyomin Liebman
A gemara in Rosh Hashanah (11a) likens the Avos – the Patriarchs – to mountains. Rabbi Aaron Gibber commented that when one stands atop a peak with its sweeping view, it is difficult to appreciate the mountain itself. Its height, majesty, and scale can only be recognized when one steps back and sees it from below.
So
it is with our father, Dr. Mayer Liebman, z”l. Even five years after his
passing, words are inadequate to capture the scope of his goodness, his
devotion to others, and his mountain-like presence that shaped the lives of
those he touched.
A
Passionate Commitment to Judaism
Our
father’s love for Judaism was exuberant, contagious, and unselfconscious.
Whether among family, friends, or colleagues, he felt responsible to share the
beauty of Torah and mitzvos. When we had guests, he would often make kiddush or
havdalah and then launch into a spirited dance around the dining room
table.
His
faith permeated every setting. When he was installed as president of MedChi, the
Maryland State Medical Society, at a formal black-tie dinner, he insisted on
making a motzi over a large challah at the head table. Every moment, in
his eyes, was an opportunity to bring Torah into the world. Erev Shabbos,
he would purchase bouquets of flowers and drive to Levindale, handing them out
to residents with warm wishes for a good Shabbos. Walking to shul, he greeted
everyone he passed – rabbanim, joggers, bus riders – with a tipped hat
and a smile. He somehow combined the gentility of his Southern upbringing with
Shammai’s directive: “Hevei mekabel es kol ha’adam b’sever panim yafos – Greet
every person with a pleasant face.”
Prayer
and Service
Our
father’s avodah was characterized by sincerity and simplicity. Friday
nights, he sang Eishes Chayil and Shalom Aleichem with
outstretched arms, fully immersed in the deveikus of welcoming Shabbos.
He
confided that he sometimes struggled to feel Hashem’s presence during tefilah.
Yet after days or weeks of feeling little inspiration, “the curtain would
open,” he would say, describing those sudden moments of clarity and kirvas
Elokim.
He
found Hashem in the details of creation: the shimmer of glazed icicles, the
flash of a bluebird. He would look heavenward, lift his hands, and whisper, “Ribono
Shel Olam.”
Alongside
this wonder was an unrelenting desire for internal clarity. He performed a
nightly cheshbon hanefesh, recording the day’s events and his emotional
responses with pen and paper. It was his quiet, lifelong practice of
self-refinement.
Seeing
Goodness in Others
Our
father lived Rabbi Nachman’s teaching to “seek out the good points” in every
person. He instinctively avoided machlokes (disputes), refusing to join
divisions that fracture communities. He was blind to the “us/them” categories
that so often separate people.
He
had strong convictions: He did not confuse Torah fidelity with modern
adaptation or relativism, but he never mistook people for their ideologies. He
could disagree sharply yet regard others with unshaken respect. He saw each
person’s tzelem Elokim first.
Love of
Torah Study
Though
he descended from families steeped in Torah scholarship – including rabbonim,
shochtim, and, according to family lore, the Vilna Gaon – our father
grew up with limited formal Jewish education in Norfolk, Virginia. Yet he
cherished what he knew, especially Pirkei Avos, which he learned with me
and my brother every Shabbos afternoon.
He
revered talmidei chachamim. For many years he attended a weekly shiur
given by Rabbi Yaakov Weinberg, zt”l, and spoke of him with a sense of awe,
once remarking that he learned even from watching the Rosh Yeshiva tie his
shoelaces.
His
first exposure to the depth of Gemara came in the mid-1980s at Yesodei HaTorah through
the leadership of Rabbi Tzvi Goode and under the tutelage of his rebbi
of many years, Rabbi Nosson Horowitz, igniting a passion that lasted the rest
of his life. Rabbi Mitchell Wohlberg encouraged him early on, and Rabbi
Yirmiyohu Kaganoff had a tremendous impact on our father in the profound way he
approached learning and mitzvos. He formed a deep connection to Etz Chaim under
Rabbi Shlomo Porter’s, z”l, gentle guidance and wisdom, savoring each shiur.
After
long days seeing patients, he immersed himself in learning at night and
continually marveled at the milchamta shel Torah across generations. His
dedication to learning was unstinting, even as he faced physical and medical
challenges in his later years. Despite the ordeal of simply getting into and
out of the car for doctor’s appointments, his caregivers and beloved,
tirelessly devoted brother David would bring him to the Community Kollel with
his walker, enabling him to continue his cherished study. The indefatigable
Rabbi Mordechai Bamberger was instrumental in our father’s daily participation
in the Kollel’s activities. During the final two years of his life, the
Rosh Kollel, Rav Nesanel Kostelitz, shlit”a, hosted two siyumim
in his home in honor of our father’s accomplishments in learning.
A Life
of Service
Professionally,
our father devoted himself tirelessly to medicine, psychiatry, and communal
leadership. He received the Maryland Psychiatric Association’s Lifetime Service
Award, served in the U.S. Public Health Service during the Johnson
Administration, and was president of HIAS and MedChi. He taught at the
Baltimore Washington Psychoanalytic Institute and supervised residents at the
University of Maryland School of Medicine. He was a mentor and role model for
generations of psychiatrists and other mental health professions.
Yet
his greatest achievements were often quiet. He was not one to seek the
spotlight or draw attention to himself. A prominent politician once told me
that our father had been instrumental in his election. Rabbi Weinberg referred
to him as the yeshiva’s “resource man.” The president of the Maryland Psychiatric
Association praised him for his tenacity: “When I need something done, I give
it to Dr. Liebman.”
Despite
his stature, he was profoundly humble and self-effacing. As a Shabbos guest he
would sweep floors or clear dishes, insisting on helping. His compassion knew
no limits – neither time of day nor ability to pay. His compassion extended to
all of creation. He could not bear to kill even the most menacing looking
insect and once spent hours in the middle of the night finding a home for a
litter of opossums discovered beside their deceased mother. Even in later
years, confined to a wheelchair, he could not refrain from helping. His
caregivers finally fashioned a shortened broom and dustpan so he could continue
sweeping while seated.
Physician
and Healer
Our
father approached medicine with reverence and a sense of wonder. He was
endlessly curious, never rigid, and always evolving in his understanding.
Grateful for his medical and psychoanalytic training yet unpersuaded by
scientific hubris, he would say, “I treat, and G-d cures.”
He
was deeply committed to his patients and developed expertise in treating individuals
suffering from dissociative identity disorder (DID), who had often endured
extreme forms of abuse and childhood trauma. He even taught himself basic
American Sign Language to speak with one of his patient’s several personalities
who only communicated in sign.
Tokens
of gratitude from patients filled drawers and boxes. One remarkable letter was from
a former patient with DID, in which each personality thanked him for the compassion
that saved her life. During the shiva, we were deeply touched by members
of our community who confided in us that our father had helped them during
their times of need, at times making himself available in the middle of the
night. He felt privileged to help all who suffered. He felt especially
privileged to work with Holocaust survivors. He never reduced patients to their
diagnoses and lamented that society often defines people by intellectual
capacity. He never viewed people with mental illness, regardless of the
severity, as fundamentally different. For example, when, as a yeshiva bachur
in Israel I noted that an old friend he insisted we visit appeared psychotic.
Our father simply replied, almost perplexed by my comment, “Yes, I know, and
so?”
Courage
and Integrity
Our
father’s moral courage emerged early in his life. As a teenager at a large Boy
Scout Jamboree, when an evangelical call was made for all believers to stand,
hundreds rose – except one young man. Our father remained seated even as the
scouts beside him tried to lift him up, chair and all.
Decades
later, in a senior leadership role at a prestigious institution, he again chose
principle over self-interest. Faced with a situation requiring moral clarity,
he took a public stand, knowing it would require that he resign and leave a
hospital where he had been on staff for two decades. Years later, the
institution’s director thanked him for his courage. Our father would often
comment that being Jewish requires that we follow Avraham Avinu’s example in
being willing to stand apart from society’s ever shifting mores and norms.
The
Final Test: Grace amid Decline
In
his final years, our father faced his greatest challenge, a progressive
neurological illness that steadily stripped away the external aspects of his
identity and agency. Yet even as his abilities faded, his essential self – his
warmth, kindness, gratitude, and emunah – only sharpened. Caregivers
loved and respected him, and visitors were struck by his continued graciousness
and equanimity. He understood what was happening but rejected denial,
bitterness, and despair. “I wouldn’t recommend it,” he once said about his
illness, “but there is much to learn.”
In
those final years and months, challenges of his illness allowed the deepest
qualities of his character to shine through. Rabbi Tzvi Goode, speaking at the levaya,
captured it most poignantly: As the external layers of greatness fell away, the
radiance of his inner essence shone ever more brightly.
Yehi
zichro baruch.
