Rabbi Janet Marder

November 19, 2006

Introduction to the Service of Remembrance for Rabbi Sidney Akselrad

         B’ruchim ha-bai’m: welcome to all of you.

         To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven. A time to be born and a time to die. A time to plant; a time to harvest. A time to tear down; a time to build up. A time to weep, a time to laugh. A time to grieve; a time to dance. A time to embrace, a time to stand alone. A time to seek, a time to lose; a time to hold on, a time to let go. A time to rend, a time to mend; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak.

         After 85 years, the time has come. A great soul has left us, and we are here to say goodbye.

         Goodbye to our rabbi, our teacher, our leader, our wise and beloved friend. Our community mourns today. Hundreds have gathered, from Beth Am and beyond, to pay tribute to Rabbi Sidney Akselrad, zichrono livracha, may his memory be for a blessing.

         In our midst, a family is mourning, as well, for a loving brother, husband, father, grandfather, uncle, cousin. Sidney belonged to his family in a deep and intimate way; he was part of them; and it is hard for them, I know, to share this day of personal loss with so many others. To his sisters, Sylvia and Ann, who are with us in spirit today; to Marge, and to Audrey, Deena, Sandy, Lisa and all the family, we want to say that today we especially honor Sidney’s love for you, and the precious place you held in his heart. Our hearts are with you, now and always.

         In the weeks before his death, when Sidney and I discussed his memorial service, he gave me careful instructions; and the first of these was that he wanted the mood today to be positive and upbeat. “I’ve lived a good life,” he said. “There’s a lot to celebrate.”

         So there is, and so we will. Today is a time to laugh as well as cry, as we remember the man we have lost as he was; with honesty, with humor, with respect and with great love.

         A time to rend, a time to mend.  Death tears at the fabric of a community, as the black k’riah ribbon is torn at the loss of a loved one. Let us bind up our wounds in coming together for this day of remembrance, gratitude and celebration.

Eulogy: Rabbi Sidney Akselrad

May his memory be for a blessing

         Sidney was born with a pronounced tremor. It was a family trait – his mother had it, so did one of his sisters, and it got worse as he grew older. His hands shook so much that his handwriting, even as a young man, was virtually illegible.  Yet I never thought of him as shaky or uncertain. His hands were steady on the tiller as he steered the ship, his leadership steadfast, his faith in God and in human beings unwavering. He was, for so many people, a rock – someone to depend on, someone you could trust with your confidences, someone who conformed not to fashion but to solid, eternal values. 

         Through the chaotic years of the 60s and 70s, when the generations were divided and the nation’s streets were full of violence and turmoil, Sidney embodied great and ancient truths that had stood the test of time.  These were the teachings he had loved since he was a boy, memorized and incorporated into his everyday life: “Justice, justice, shalt thou pursue.”  “If I am not for myself, who shall be for me? But if I am only for myself, what am I? And if not now, when?”  “In a place where there is no man, seek thou to be a man.”  “You are not required to complete the task, but neither are you free to desist from it.”  “Do justice, love mercy, walk humbly with thy God.”

         He provided strong and courageous moral leadership in chaotic times; he was a model of integrity when those in high places  sank into corruption. But Sidney expressed his principles not only in the stands he took on great issues like civil rights, interfaith work, Israel and the war in Vietnam . His character shone forth in the kindness he brought to every human encounter. He gave you his full attention. He didn’t judge you. Even if you weren’t so religious, you could feel comfortable walking and talking with him. He loved people and took pleasure in helping them.  He didn’t think about what he could get in return. He took the Rotary motto with utmost seriousness: “service above self.”

         I admired the way Sidney never let ideology get in the way of personal relationships. If you opposed him, he forgave you and didn’t hold a grudge. Whatever your opinions on the issues, he was always your rabbi, and he cared for you at the crucial moments of your life. He liked to say that he believed in leaving people whole and intact rather than cutting them down. It was one of the last lessons he gave to me. “Never forget the person,” he said. “Never forget the individual. When you disagree with someone, you shouldn’t insult him. Always let him keep his self-respect.” 

         Sidney liked to quote a verse that his father had taught him from Pirke Avot, the Ethics of our Sages. The verse says “V’chapasta umatzata – seek and you will find,” but his father changed it to “v’yagata – stretch out your hands, extend yourself.”  Sidney said, “I learned from my father very early that just to do what was expected of you was not enough. That you ought to go beyond.” And so he did, reaching out to draw others near, blessing us each day with the work of his hands.

         But it’s his voice I’ll remember most. Gentle, patient; persistent; comforting; meandering slowly through a sermon, delighting in a favorite story; speaking in measured cadences at a funeral; offering meaningful, personal words at a wedding or Bar Mitzvah; lifted up in impassioned moments of rhetoric; speaking out in the larger community, building bridges, winning friends, standing up for a principle; making easy conversation with anyone, of any age or background, in his simple, direct and sincere way. A distinctive voice, which, especially in his last years, embodied the man he was – a frail vessel for so powerful a spirit.

         He was not pompous. He was not slick. He was not phony or full of himself.  He was not good with gadgets – his family loves to tell the story of how he once tried to bake a potato in the brand-new microwave oven, set the timer for 60 minutes and, after a leisurely shower, came back to the kitchen to find the microwave had exploded in flames. This, too, he took it in stride.

         He was not trendy, but he was far-seeing, youthful in spirit, always reading and learning new things, and his ideas were ahead of his time. He was not a mathematician --- he always joked that because he’d skipped two grades in school he never learned fractions or decimals. He always cared about people more than numbers. He was far from athletic, but he moved through life with an easy and natural grace, supremely comfortable with himself, in a way that made others comfortable with him.

         That was our rabbi, the man we knew in his public role for 44 years. Remarkably, it was also the private man. There was no act. There was no split between the character we saw on the bima and the character he showed to his most intimate circle of family and friends. A humble man, simple in his tastes, selfless in the deepest sense  --  genuinely unaware of self, focused on others, oblivious to his own needs.  Appreciative of every little thing you did for him. So gentle and indulgent with his children that he never raised his voice to them, and his “spankings” were nothing but taps on the tuchos. Supportive and proud of them, no matter what. If they brought home a B, he didn’t ask why it wasn’t an A.

         He was a sweet, affectionate and funny grandpa whose greatest pride and joy were Linda and  Caitlin, Michelle and Becca, CJ and Sam. Linda remembers him walking her to the park a few blocks away, pushing her high up on the swings as he sang to her. Becca remembers the time he was with his family at an “all you can eat” buffet restaurant and brought back a big cucumber to the table with him. He was just about to take a bite when they pointed out that the cucumber was made of plastic. Once Papa fell asleep in his big chair and Caitlin painted his fingernails bright red. He didn’t notice until she pointed it out to him. Michelle says, “He never spoke badly about anyone. He made us feel good about ourselves. If we were happy, he was happy.”

         It is not easy to be the spouse or child of a congregational rabbi – especially a rabbi as tirelessly devoted to his flock as Sidney was. Audrey remembers that all through high school she’d go to Friday night services just so she could see her dad. She’d wait for him with a glass of Hawaiian punch at the oneg, handing it to him as he talked to all the people. She waited all evening until he was ready to come home – and he was always the very last person to leave. On weekends he was at services, and then at the party for every Bar and Bat Mitzvah – until finally, years later,  he gave them up to be with his family.  

         On a typical weekday, Sidney would get home from work at 5 or 5:30. He’d say to Marge – “just let me nap for five minutes.” Then, after a few minutes rest, he’d get up, eat dinner, shower and shave for the second time that day, and go out for the evening to another meeting, arriving home late at night. Marge would wait up for him every night so that he’d have someone to talk to, in case there was something he needed to get off his chest.

         Sidney ’s kids saw their mom’s devotion to their dad. She’d say, “What can we do for your dad? He’s always doing for others.”  Sidney and Marge had a whirlwind romance. They met in 1953 and were married within three months. “I broke all my own rules,” he told me, with a mischievous glint in his eyes. On their very first date, Marge put Sidney on a diet. For the 53 years of their marriage, she watched out for him, worried over him, was fiercely protective of his health and well-being. Their love was private, shielded from the public fishbowl, but it was very deep, powerful and passionate.

         Sidney adored his wife, and he admired her more than anyone else he knew --  respected her strength of character, her system of values, her devotion to her family. She was his confidante, his sounding board and his most trusted advisor; he leaned on her and depended on her strength. On those rare occasions when Marge went back to Oregon to visit her mother, she and Sidney were in constant contact, and the phone bills were enormous. “So much in life depends on the person you marry,” Sidney told me on one of his last days. “I’ve been so very fortunate.”

         Perhaps because he’d known such adversity, he felt profound gratitude for everything good in his life, and especially for love. He was grateful for his wife, for his children and grandchildren, and for his entire extended family – his parents, brother, sisters, and all his nieces, nephews and cousins.  He was their family rabbi – a source of strength and inspiration to them even as he was to the larger community. Sidney ’s retirement twenty years ago , after his quadruple bypass, was a blessing because it gave him more time with the people closest and dearest to him. Lisa says, “We got to share meaningful moments with him every day, because he was our dad.”

         The last time I saw Sidney he was lying in his hospital bed at home, but he was awake, alert and in good spirits.  As usual, he filled me in on all the latest news, and shared a few choice tidbits about the newest developments with the Jewish Community Campus.  His daughter Deena told me that lately he’d been having cravings for ice cream and pickles.  Sidney smiled and said, “Maybe I’m pregnant.”

         He reminisced for a while, speaking affectionately about the presidents and congregational leaders with whom he had worked, the students he had trained, the teachers in his religious school. He said, “People have written me such beautiful letters – I wish I could write as well as they do.” Then he said, ““People have always been kind to me.”

         I thanked Rabbi Akselrad for always being so good to me, for teaching me so much and for helping me in every way he could to be a better rabbi for Congregation Beth Am.  I said the Vidui, the prayer for the dying, with him. Then we sang together the first verse of the Mishebeirach for healing: “May the Source of strength who blessed the ones before us, help us find the courage to make our lives a blessing.” When the prayer was over I said to him, “We all love you, Sidney.” He said, “I love you, too.”  Then he said, “Baruch ata b’voecha, baruch ata b’tzeitecha. Blessed were you in your coming in; blessed shall you be in your going forth.”

         I prayed that he would  be blessed on his way out, that this good and gentle man would pass away as quietly and peacefully as he had lived --  as our Sages say, “dying with a kiss from God.” In his last days, enfolded in his family’s tender care, he continued to give them strength and comfort, approaching the end with serenity and without fear. He was gracious and considerate to his caregivers – one late night he urged his nurse to lie down and rest, telling her that she looked tired. 

         Another time, very close to the end, his daughter Deena was sitting by his bed singing Hatikvah, “The Hope” – the national anthem of Israel . She forgot the words and paused for a moment, and then she heard her dad’s voice singing them for her. I like to think of Sidney , in the hours before he finally lost consciousness and slipped away from us, singing a song of hope.

         Now he is gone from this world, but never, ever from our hearts. We have him still in the kind, compassionate and principled children he leaves behind, and in the close and loving family he created with Marge. We will hear him, later in this service, in the voice of his son, Rabbi Sandy Akselrad, and we will see him in Sandy ’s face. We recognize him in his six spirited and talented grandchildren, who will grow up knowing they were loved and cherished by a great man who still lives inside them. 

         And together we will keep him alive in this holy congregation. We will tell his stories; we will live by his lessons of optimism, courage and devotion to people; through our actions, we will make his goodness live on in this world. 

         Martin Buber wrote: “Every person born into this world represents something new, something that never existed before, something original and unique.” Rabbi Sidney Akselrad was an individual -- precious to God, precious to us who knew him and loved him. Let us give thanks for the gift of his life.