EULOGY FOR MY FATHER, ABBOT ERON
Delivered February 28, 1982, 10:30 A.M.
Englewood, New Jersey
Lewis John Eron
המקום ינחם אותנו בתוך שאר אבלי ציון וירושלים.
May the presence of that which is Divine
comfort us along with the other mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.
יברך את אבי, מורתי אברהם שלום בן יוסף יצחק.
May he bless my father, my teacher – Abbot Eron
Our tradition understands fatherhood in many different ways and I experienced my father in all these ways. The most important is that of moreh, teacher, or better, guide, for the root of the word moreh is a verb meaning to aim, to direct or to guide. It is thus related to the important Jewish value word, Torah.
It is impossible for me to recount all the things my father taught me, to tell all the Torah of my father, my moreh. What I would like to do is to recreate one discussion, one session in which he taught me Torah.
When I was studying at the Reconstructionist Rabbinical College, I had a student pulpit. The mother of one of my congregants died and I conducted the funeral service which lasted all of twenty minutes. The realization that all we get is twenty minutes was shocking. The next day or so after the funeral I went home and talked about the experience with my father.
We talked, most likely on the porch or in the kitchen, about the end of life and the purpose of life. In the course of the discussion my father illustrated his position that this world is the stage of human action by the famous rabbinic legend of the four sages who entered the Pardes, that is paradise, the garden.
The legend tells of four sages who sought to enter paradise. One went mad, one committed suicide, one became an apostate and one, Rabbi Aqiba, emerged whole. My father interpreted this story in the following way. The Pardes, paradise, represents the goal of life and only Aqiba emerged from the quest intact because only he knew for what to search. The others thinking paradise was beyond the world left their worlds to search for it.
Since the image of the garden is so closely tied to a celestial paradise in rabbinic literature, I asked my father how he could make the identification of Aqiba’s garden with this world.
“Gardens,” he responded, “need not always have a heavenly reference; they may be used as an image for this world.” Again for support he turned to a rabbinic legend, this time to an animal fable.
“Once,” he said, “a fox came upon a vineyard filled with beautiful grapes and surrounded by a tall fence. The fox desired so much to enter this vineyard and circling around the fence he found a hole in it. The fox tried to crawl through the hole but it was too small and he too fat. So he fasted, let’s say for seven days, a good legendary number, and was finally able to enter the vineyard. “In the vineyard he feasted on the grapes and enjoyed all the vineyard could offer. But finally, when all the grapes were gone and after he took in all that there was in the vineyard, he tried to leave by crawling through the hole in the fence.
“Once again the hole was too small and he too fat. So he fasted seven days before he could once again squeeze through the hole.
“Here,” my father said, “the vineyard, a plantation, a garden, clearly refers to this world. You enter it empty and leave it empty and all that is of value is found in the vineyard-world.”
“But, Dad,” I responded, “this approach to life is dangerous. How does one determine values for this world in your scheme?”
“Lewis, do you remember how the first legend ended?” he replied.
“Of course,” I said. “The legend says that Aqiba entered and left by his deeds.”
“So what does that mean?” my father asked.
“Its obvious, it means that it was Aqiba’s actions and behaviors that let him in and out of paradise.”
“
And what was the arena of Aqiba’s actions since he was only human?” he asked.
“This world, naturally,” I replied.
“But what actions? What did Aqiba do? More importantly, what are we to do. Besides, Aqiba is described by many scholars as a mystic and you and I and most Jews and most people today are not mystics.”
“I don’t know about Aqiba as a mystic,” my father answered, “but I do know that he was a Jew and as a Jew responded to the call of Torah.”
“And what is that call?” I pushed. “You surely do not see it as traditional Jewish law, halakha.”
“No,” my father replied, “it is not necessarily traditional Jewish law but rather the spirit that lies behind that law. It is the challenge of every Jew in every generation to make that spirit active in his life.”
“And what is the spirit?” I asked.
“The spirit is the words of the prophet Micah,” he answered and he quoted them from memory, “It has been told you, humanity, what is good and what the Eternal does require of you: Only to do justly, to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.”
My father bore four names. In Hebrew he was called “Avraham” after the first Jew and “Shalom” the goal of all Jews. In English he was called “Abbot” which comes from the Hebrew/Aramaic “Abba”, meaning “daddy” or “father”. And Eron, a name that he gave to me and my family. It means not only “little angel” but a special kind of little angel know as an alert one.
I can only pray that now in the presence of that which is divine that I, my brother, Jonathan, my sister, Carol, my sister, Deborah, my mother, my father’s brothers and all of us can remain beings ones alert to the Torah of Avraham Shalom ben Joseph, Abbot Eron, my Abba, my daddy, my father, my teacher.