Chapter 50 funeral oration

Every seat is occupied.The church was full of people.There were murmured greetings and tearful embraces, but all averted their eyes from the pulpit.In a typical memorial ceremony, you sit facing forward, but it is unlikely that you will be facing the void left by the deceased. (In the past, he always sat in that seat, and he always stood beside that podium) After the massive stroke, the Archmage survived a few days in a peaceful coma, long enough for his wife, children, and grandchildren to arrive and whisper farewell to him.I went too.I stroked his thick white hair, pressed my face against his, and promised never to let him die a second time, and that as long as I was alive, he would not be forgotten.For the past eight years, I have never cried in front of the Archmage.

When I finally burst into tears, he couldn't see. I'm going home and waiting for the call.I did not set to work on his obituary right away.It wouldn't feel right if I wrote it while he was still alive.I have tapes, notes, photographs, notes; I have textbooks, sermons, newspaper clippings; I didn't start writing until the phone finally came.I didn't even look at the pile of information. Now, I reach for the typewritten sheets of paper in my coat, the last request he made of me.The few pieces of paper were folded and put in the pocket.Originally, I thought the itinerary could be solved in two or three weeks at best, but it took eight years, and I experienced most of the ten years from my forty to fifty years old.In the mirror, I look a lot older.I think back to the night that started it all.

(Will you help me write the sacrificial text?) It feels like something from a previous life. After praying in a low voice, his memorial service began, which was the first time in the church's sixty years that it was not performed by Oberth.Luis presided over the ceremony in which he was not present.After several minutes and several prayers, the current Rabbi Stephen.Lindemann, the archmage, graciously welcomed his successor and praised his predecessor with love and beautiful words.He used a sentence that makes people recall: Ah, such are the dead. The church fell silent.It's my turn.

I climbed the carpeted steps and walked past the casket of the man who taught me with his house of prayer and the beauty of his faith.A choking sob came up and I had to stop to catch my breath. I stood where he used to stand. I lean forward slightly. I said so ∮ dear rabbi It can be said that you succeeded.You finally got us all together on days other than the big festivals, to come here. I think, deep down, I know that this day will come.But standing here now, I still feel that the situation is reversed.I should be off stage and you should be on stage.The stage is your place.We always come here to you to lead us, enlighten us, sing to us, quiz us, and tell us the answer to everything from Jewish law to what page our name is on.

The structure of the universe is that we are below, God is above, and you are in the middle.If God is too daunting for us to face him, we come to you first.It's like making friends with the secretary who sits at the door of your boss's office. But where shall we find you now? Eight years ago, you came to me after one of my talks and you said you wanted me to do you a favor.You ask: Can I speak at your funeral?I was stunned.To this day, I still don't know why you picked me. But as soon as you ask, I know two things: I will never be able to say no.That's one.In addition, I need to know more about you, not only as a priest, but also as a human being.So we started meeting and talking, in your office, in your home, for an hour here, two hours there.

Extend one week to one month.One month extended to one year.Eight years later, I sometimes wonder if the whole thing was a rabbi's ploy to lure me into adult education classes.When we meet, you cry and laugh: we debate ideas big and small, and make assumptions.I found that in addition to wearing robes, you also wear sandals with black socks and Bermuda shorts.You'll also wear a plaid shirt with a down vest.I discovered your avid collection of letters, articles, crayons and back issues of the newsletter Temple Talk.Someone collects cars or clothing, and you've never had a great idea that couldn't be archived.

I told you once, I'm not like you, I'm not a man who works for God.You interrupt me and say: You are a man who works for God.You tell me, when this day comes, I will definitely find something to say. This day has really come, but you are gone. The pulpit was as empty as a desert. ∮ But it doesn't matter, first introduce your basic information.Any well-written sacrificial oration must introduce basic information.You were born in New York during World War I: the family was so poor that at one point your father boarded a train trying to find his way to Alaska and he never violated the kosher commandments.Both your grandfather and father-in-law were rabbis, and you have a lot of rabbis in your family tree, but you want to be a history teacher.You love teaching.Then you try to pass the rabbi test and fail.However, a great Jewish scholar said a sentence, which you have quoted countless times in the future, and encouraged many of us: try again.

You do try again.Thank god you tried again. When you were appointed to the priesthood, it was popular to go to the West of the United States and California to develop.There are many wealthy and expanding synagogues there.Instead, you drive for two hours along the New Jersey Turnpike to a ramshackle parish with only one house that is supposed to serve as a church.You're here because you're like James F. in It's a Wonderful Life.Like Stewart, he felt an obligation to live close to his family.You, like the character played by Stewart in the film, never left this place again; not only did you not leave, but you built this church.Some people will say that it is your duty to shoulder this responsibility.

Under your loving care, this church has grown from an ad hoc meeting place to a thriving synagogue; in a not the most favorable location between two Christian churches, it stands firm.You can always coexist peacefully in the best possible way.When the Catholic priest across the street insulted one of our church members, you demanded an apology: After the priest apologized, you agreed with him to atone for his sin with a gesture.When you waited for the students of the Catholic primary school to play on the campus after class, you walked arm in arm with the priest on the campus, which showed that different beliefs can get along with each other and walk shoulder to shoulder.

You stand up for us this way.You made us confident and our membership exploded.You founded schools for us, you created a holy community, you made us too crowded.You lead parades and excursions.You go door to door, door to door, countless times. You are a priest in service and never act condescending.Everyone scrambles to listen to you, and no matter what, they squeeze in to listen to your sermon, as if it is a sin to miss your sermon.I know what you hate most when people rush out the door after a sermon.But Archmage, just think of the number of synagogues where the audience scrambled away before the sermon even started!

After sixty years as a rabbi, you finally left the pulpit, but you didn't move to Florida like a lot of people who retire, you just sat in the back of this church.It's a humble gesture, but you can't really move to the back row anyway, just like the soul can't retreat to a remote corner in the body. This is your house, Archmage.You are in the rafters, in the floor, in the walls, in the lights.You are in every echo in every hallway.We hear you now.I still hear you. How can each of us let you go?You are woven into our lives, from birth to death.You educated us, married us, and comforted us.Every one of our life milestones, our weddings and funerals, you are there.You gave us courage when tragedy struck; you stirred the embers of our faith when we roared at God and reminded us that, as a widely revered philosopher said, the only heart that is whole is a broken heart. Look at every broken heart here today.Look at every face in this church.I have only had one rabbi in my life.You only have one congregation in your lifetime.When we say goodbye to you, we say goodbye to a part of ourselves. But where shall we find you now? ∮ Remember, Archmage, you told me once that you lived in the Bronx in New York as a child, and the people who lived there were crowded and intimate.Once you pushed and rammed a van, expecting an apple to fall from it, and the neighbor on the fifth floor yelled out of the window: Oberth, no.In your life, there is a finger of God shaking at you at the fire escape door on every floor. Let's put it this way, you are our finger that sticks out from the window and shakes us no.Just say how many bad things we didn't do, and how much good you did.Many of you here have moved houses, new addresses, new jobs, new climates, but we have always had the same old rabbi in our hearts.We look out the window and see your face and hear your voice on the wind. But where shall we find you now? ∮ The last few times we talked, you talked a lot about death and the afterlife.You tilt your head and sing: Don't, Lord of heaven, don't let me suffer too much when you take me away. By the way, Archmage, about singing.what happened?The poet Whitman sang of the electric current of human contact, the singer Billie.Harriet sings the blues, you can sing anything.You can even sing the phone book.I call to greet you, and you sing and answer: old rabbi with white hair is no match About singing, I made fun of you, but I actually like you like that, and I think we all do.So we're not surprised that you were singing to the nurse when she was about to wash you up, before the final blow of the illness took you from us last week.I like to imagine that the Lord chose to bring you to Him at that moment, while you were humming, because the Lord liked to hear the happy voice of this child so happy that he sang in the hospital. You are now with God.I believe so.You told me that your greatest wish after death is to be able to speak to our group, to tell us that you have arrived at your destination, safe and healthy.Even after death, you still want to preach another sermon. But you know what, there's an infuriating but very high-sounding reason why you can't speak to us today, because if you could preach today, we might not need faith.And faith is all you have.You are like the salesman in that Jewish story you often quote, knocking on your door every day, recommending your wares with a smile on your face, until one day the customer gets fed up with your indomitability and spits in your face.You took out a handkerchief, wiped off the drool, and smiled again: It must be raining. There are a lot of handkerchiefs here today, Archmage, but it's not because of the rain.That's because some of us can't bear to let you go.Some of us want to apologize too, for saying walk away so many times, spitting in the face of our faith so many times. ∮ I don't want to praise you with sacrificial rites.I will be afraid.I don't think congregations should praise their leaders.But now I know that thousands of congregations will praise you today, on the drive home, at the dinner table.A liturgy is nothing but a summary of memories, and we will never forget you, because we cannot forget you, because we miss you every day.The world without you is a little less God in the world, but since God is not a resource that can increase or decrease in weight, I can't believe there is such a thing. But I must believe that you have returned to God and become part of His glory.Your soul is like a gift returned to God. You are a star in God's sky and a ray of warmth in our hearts.We believe that you are now with your ancestors, with your daughter, with your past, at peace. May God take care of you: may he sing to you and you to him. Where shall we find you now, Archmage? We'll be looking in the direction you've been trying to make us look, you good and loving man of God. We'll look up.