Bernard Axelrad Scholarship Fund

Exactly one week before Rabbi Abram I. Maron died, on the morning of erev Pesach, I attended special services as is required of bechorim (firstborn sons). The Rabbi concluded the morning prayers with the customary "siyum," a ceremony to absolve firstborn sons from fasting that day. It consisted of his reading and expounding upon a rather abstruse tract of the Talmud which dealt esoterically with the diverse treatment of men and women in certain situations.

As was my wont, I posed several somewhat disputatious questions concerning the arcane subject matter of his commentary. Regular readers know that I often broached questions to the Rabbi which others may have found annoying. As always, he answered quite graciously.

Then, this time, he turned to me and softly added, "You know, Bernie, you have time now, and it would be nice if you came by and studied with me an hour or two a week. It might help to answer some of the questions you have."

I felt very flattered. How I wish now that I could have availed myself of that opportunity to study and learn from my Rabbi.

This generous offer of a few hours of his precious time was ever so characteristic of Rabbi Maron. Those who have read my two prior articles on the extensive scope of his services to the Congregation at large Rabbi Abram Maron — 'Retired,' June 1986 as well as his ministrations on a personal level to the individual members and their families Rabbi Abram Maron — A Personal View, July • 1986 must be as mystified as I am as to where he would have found the time.

Rabbi Moron's myriad pursuits ran the gamut from answering the phone, attending daily morning and evening services every day of every week, chanting the Torah readings, teaching bar mitzvah boys, delivering every Sabbath and holiday sermon, handling celebration arrangements from bar mitzvahs and weddings to Passover Seders. That was not all. He delivered eulogies at funerals, visited the sick, consoled the bereaved, counseled the troubled and his office door was always open to whomever had a question or problem.

The Rabbi did all these things while still being a devoted husband, a loving father, an involved brother, and most happily of all a doting grandfather. Nothing seemed impossible to him.

So, in finding the time to make good his offer to "learn" with me, for sure, he would have managed.

In the days following his unforeseen passing I mourned and grieved and tried to assuage my heartache by talking about him to fellow sorrowers. Thus, I learned, posthumously, of an incident which typified the peerless kind of Rabbi and man he was.

A Jewish young couple had asked the Rabbi to marry them shortly after Passover. The 49-day period between Passover and Shavuot ("The Counting of the Omer") is traditionally one of sadness and mourning, and it is an established custom among Jews not to hold any joyous celebrations or weddings on those days.

Rabbi Maron informed the betrothed pair of this prohibition and his consequent unwillingness to perform the ceremony then. Instead, he proffered his services at any later date they selected.

However, the couple adamantly refused to deter the wedding and indicated they alternatively would be married solely in a civil ceremony by a Justice of the Peace. I was told that when the Rabbi couldn't persuade them otherwise, he was prepared to administer their vows in a simple Jewish wedding on the appointed date.

Even though it was contrary to both his Orthodox tradition and his strong belief, he pragmatically resolved that it was most important for this couple to experience a Jewish wedding and was prepared to officiate. His untimely and sudden death ultimately precluded his participation. I wonder what eventually did transpire and whether that young couple ever fully realized the painful dilemma faced by the Rabbi in their interest.

This last incident epitomizes for me the essence of Rabbi Maron's ministerial creed. He cherished the substance of human and spiritual values equally with the external observances and constraints prescribed by the religious laws and rules.

This is not to say he was heretical or untrue to Orthodox canons, but he felt it was vital that Jewish religious laws be interpreted and implemented in a humane, compassionate and forgiving fashion.

Rabbi Maron was an Orthodox Jew, make no mistake about it; and, in his own way, he was a helige mensch, a truly holy man. But he did not follow blindly the path of halacha (traditional Jewish law) when it conflicted with humanitarian values and considerations. At such times, he paused — as at a fork in the road — and acted as best he could in carefully balancing his established Orthodox background and training with an exquisite and discriminating sensitivity to human frailty and imperfection. Some might fault him; I found it admirable.

Sure, it entailed difficult determinations. But he, more than anybody else I have known, was capable of bridging that gap and making Judaism into an operative, meaningful religion and way of life rather than a relic of its past history. And who is to say that he was not doing God's will?

With that pragmatic approach he often brought the painfully alienated, who had turned away, closer to the mainstream of Jewish life and observance. One can hardly ask more of a rabbi.

He was a loner, as I have said, and a private man. Enigmatic. More at ease on the pulpit than face to face with a single Congregant. To me he appeared impenetrable and never seemed to open himself up to other individuals or to self-examination. But when he prayed, his eyes closed and, face wreathed in rapture, he appeared like the Prophets of old to commune with God. Perhaps that was the most important friendship Rabbi Maron ever had or needed.

Within him resided the singular wisdom gained not only in the crucible of personal tragedy but enhanced by the insights achieved through being called upon to counsel countless others in their tribulations and ordeals. This gave him both an understanding of and empathy for human weakness and fragility which, in turn, made him accepting and non-judgmental.

What made this quality even more rare and endearing is that he was not just outwardly tolerant: how he dealt with people truly reflected his innermost feelings.

However it came to him, my Rabbi realized more than most that the minds and souls of men are ambiguous, that matters are complex and answers, not so obvious. Neither was he so sanctimonious nor so self-righteous that he could not consider a deviation from rigid compliance with established doctrine in instances where countervailing human values cried out for a special kind of sensitive response. And he answered those cries because of his faith, not despite it.

He left behind a legacy of menschlichkeit which will long be remembered. In fact, "Rabbi Abram I. Maron, Mensch," could serve as his epitaph.