My Rav Z"L*: Now Cracks a Noble Heart

Sometimes, grief stops all the music.

In fact, for many years now, I had stopped listening to Rachmaninoff's sonorous Vespers (Russian choral version), and then there is today, a good day for weeping. The music and voices, combined, are luminous and grave and transcendent and uplifting and spiritual- which just about describes my Rav. Funny, how it takes his death for me to actually say it out loud- "my Rav". And he was. I would call him my rebbe but he wasn't, because that seems to designate him my leader, as I understand the term, in current times. He was never designated anything. But my most beloved and cherished LARabbi™, it turns out, indeed, was my Rav.

In one of our last conversations, he was hanging out with me and L for a bit after kiddush, a rare occasion. Actually, he wanted to talk to me. After nailing the invitation for lunch in the sukkah (and Sukkot is my fave time of year), he then expressed his pleasure about my inclusion of him in my blog- he especially loved his title and my trademarking of it.....oh, it meant a lot to him; he was touched, and that fact was there on his face and in his body, beyond his words. He might as well have done the "Happy Dance". I was pleased as well as taken aback. Subsequently, he related his abortive attempt to scoop up LARabbi as his license plate moniker when he moved back to California, as well as LARav; I do recall that his previous plate read, NJRabbi. I guess there are a lesser number of vanity plates back in New Jersey.

I told him that his words are far reaching, that he was immortalised.

Funny, this last time around, he made an effort to remember my Hebrew name when I was honoured with aliyot at minyan and main services, as well as my trademark phrase- whenever asked if I would be attending a service or whatever, I would proclaim that I would be there with "bells and pomegranates on". He finally made a point of remembering.

My Rav, a rabbi whom I totally know G-d meant for me, who would never write G-d with a dash, who welcomed me and guided me through my conversion, was my spiritual guide and mentor, radiant soul, a wise and experienced voice and judge, brilliant, very learned, funny, warm, witty, nurturing and compassionate, passionate about Judaism, a fabulous father and son, the healer of an entire congregation, a community leader, an anchor for the times I felt lost, losing, grieving and adrift, and my ultimate fan, who seemed to have it all, that is, half of which I would kill to have- a loving family, friends, peers, and congregation, respect, and material things- died by suicide.

I've wrestled over this, whether to speak of it or not for quite some time. For me, it is not about shame but about protecting a family and a congregation traumatised by the manner of his death. It could also become a case of dirty laundry, a thin line. And yet, I keep thinking- it gets dirtier the more it is kept under wraps, and murkier**. The suicide of someone from the clergy, Jewish or otherwise, opens up a massive can of worms that most people do not want to deal with. Because, after all, if we cannot find purity and truth and consistency in our clergy at all times, where, indeed, can we find it?


* "zichrono liveracha", May his memory be for a blessing
** This is NOT about details!

Baruch Dayan Emet

I have just learned that my most cherished and beloved LA Rabbi™, whom I believe to have been a tzaddik of the first order, who was my welcomer, my sponsor, my teacher, my mentor, my spiritual model and constant religious and spiritual presence and guide, a father to me- all of this, even at a great distance- was killed earlier today in a car accident. He was only 48 years old.

Though love is stronger than death, I am devastated and completely bereft... a light has gone out of the world.