I swallowed a lump. Henry was right. At that moment, it didn’t matter what name you used. God is good.

From a Sermon by the Reb, 2000

“Dear friends. I’m dying.

“Don’t be upset. I began to die on July 6, 1917. That’s the day I was born, and, in council with what our psalmist says, ‘We who are born, are born to die.’

“Now, I heard a little joke that deals with this. A minister was visiting a country church, and he began his sermon with a stirring reminder:

“‘Everyone in this parish is going to die!’

“The minister looked around. He noticed a man in the front pew, smiling broadly.

“‘Why are you so amused?’ he asked.

“I’m not from this parish,’ the man said. ‘I’m just visiting my sister for the weekend.’”

The car pulled up to the ShopRite. It was the first week in February, snow was on the ground, and the Reb looked out the window. Teela parked, shut the ignition, and asked if he was coming in.

“I’m a little tired,” he said. “I’ll wait here.”

Looking back, that was surely a clue. The Reb adored the supermarket-for him to pass it up, something had to be wrong.

“Can you leave the music on?” he asked Teela.

“Sure,” she said. And while she shopped for milk, bread, and prune juice, the Reb sat alone, in the snowy parking lot, listening to Hindi chants. It would be his last private moments in the outside world.

By the time they got home, he looked sluggish and felt achy. Calls were made. He was taken to the hospital. The nurses there asked him simple questions-his name, his address-all of which he answered. He couldn’t remember the exact date, but he knew it was the presidential election primary, and he cracked that if his candidate lost by one vote, “I’m gonna kill myself.”

He stayed for tests. His family visited. The next night, his youngest daughter, Gilah, was with him in the room. She had tickets to Israel and was worried about leaving.

“I don’t think I should go,” she said.

“Go,” he said. “I won’t do anything without you.”

His eyes were closing. Gilah called the nurse. She asked if her father could get his medication early, so he could sleep.

“Gil…,” the Reb mumbled.

She took his hand.

“Remember the memories.”

“Okay,” Gilah said, crying, “now I’m definitely not going.”

“You go,” he said. “You can remember over there, too.”

They sat for a while, father and daughter. Finally, Gilah rose and reluctantly kissed him goodnight. The nurse gave him his pills. On her way out, he whispered after her.

“Please…if you turn off the lights, could you stop by once in a while and remember I’m here?”

The nurse smiled.

“Of course. We can’t forget the singing rabbi.”

The next morning, shortly after sunrise, the Reb was awakened for a sponge bath. It was quiet and early. The nurse bathed him gently, and he was singing and humming to her, alive with the day.

Then his head slumped and his music stopped forever.

It is summer and we are sitting in his office. I ask him why he thinks he became a rabbi.

He counts on his fingers.

“Number one, I always liked people.

“Number two, I love gentleness.

“Number three, I have patience.

“Number four, I love teaching.

“Number five, I am determined in my faith.

“Number six, it connects me to my past.

“Number seven-and lastly-it allows me to fulfill the message of our tradition: to live good, to do good, and to be blessed.”

I didn’t hear God in there.

He smiles.

“God was there before number one.”

The seats were all taken. The sanctuary was full. There were mumbled greetings and tear-filled hugs, but people avoided looking at the pulpit. You face front for any funeral service, but you are rarely staring at the empty space of the deceased. He used to sit in that chair…He used to stand by that lectern…

The Reb had lived a few days beyond his massive stroke, in a peaceful coma, long enough for his wife, children, and grandchildren to get there and whisper their good-byes. I had done the same, touching his thick white hair, hugging my face to his, promising he would not die the second death, he would not be forgotten, not as long as I had a breath in me. In eight years, I had never cried in front of the Reb.

When I finally did, he couldn’t see me.

I went home and waited for the phone call. I did not start on his eulogy. It felt wrong to do so while he was still alive. I had tapes and notes and photos and pads; I had texts and sermons and newspaper clippings; I had an Arabic schoolbook with family photos.

When the call finally came, I began to write. And I never looked at any of that stuff.

Now, inside my jacket, I felt the typed pages, his last request of me, folded in my pocket. Nearly eight years had passed in what I once thought would be a two- or three-week journey. I had used up most of my forties. I looked older in the mirror. I tried to remember the night this all started.

Will you do my eulogy?

It felt like a different life.

With a quiet grace, his service began, the first service in sixty years of this congregation that Albert Lewis could not lead or join. After a few minutes, after a few prayers, the current rabbi, Steven Lindemann-whom the Reb had graciously welcomed as his replacement-spoke lovingly and beautifully of his predecessor. He used the haunting phrase, “Alas for what has been lost.”

Then the sanctuary quieted. It was my turn.

I climbed the carpeted steps and passed the casket of the man who had raised me in his house of prayer and in his faith-his beautiful faith-and my breath came so sporadically, I thought I might have to stop just to find it.

I stood where he used to stand.

I leaned forward.

And this is what I said.

Dear Rabbi-

Well, you did it. You finally managed to get us all here when it wasn’t the High Holidays.

I guess, deep down, I knew this day would come. But standing here now, it all feels backwards. I should be down there. You should be up here. This is where you belong. This is where we always looked for you, to lead us, to enlighten us, to sing to us, to quiz us, to tell us everything from Jewish law to what page we were on.

There was, in the construction of the universe, us down here, God up there, and you in between. When God seemed too intimidating to face, we could first come to you. It was like befriending the secretary outside the boss’s office.

But where do we look for you now?

Eight years ago, you came to me after a speech I gave, and you said you had a favor to ask. The favor was this: would I speak at your funeral? I was stunned. To this day, I don’t know why me.

But once you asked, I knew two things: I could never say no. And I needed to get to know you better, not as a cleric, but as a human being. So we began to visit. In your office, in your home, an hour here, two hours there.

One week turned to a month. One month turned to a year. Eight years later, I sometimes wonder if the whole thing wasn’t some clever rabbi trick to lure me into an adult education course. You laughed and cried in our meetings; we debated and postulated big ideas and small ones. I learned that, in addition to robes, you sometimes wore sandals with black socks-not a great look-and Bermuda shorts, and plaid shirts and down vests. I learned that you were a pack rat of letters, articles, crayon drawings, and old “ Temple Talk ” newsletters. Some people collect cars or clothes. You never met a good idea that couldn’t be filed.