Rabbi Avi Goldberg: A man who lit up the world
It was late at night. I was walking home from one engagement or another, weighed down by the war, the losses abounding around us, the daily grind. I was reading the news on the phone as I walked, but something made me look up, and there was Rabbi Avi — my neighbor and one of the pillars of my community, a man who led us in prayer, learning, music, and volunteer work countless times.
“Erev tov” (good evening), he said and smiled before walking on.
That was it. A five-second-long banal interaction. But it was enough. I felt rejuvenated. I put away my phone, and my worries were suddenly eased. Being smiled at by Rav Avi was like basking in sunshine. How could I be sad, or worried, or distressed, when Rav Avi looked at me with that beautiful light in his eyes?
If to exchange smiles with Rav Avi was to be uplifted, to converse with him was to feel your lungs fill with air and your soul fill with renewed strength. Because Rav Avi looked at the world with so much clarity, so much love for the Jewish people and humanity, and such a keen awareness of the deep truths and stories that underlie our lives in Israel that his perspective couldn’t help making your doubts and concerns ebb away.
During the 250 days he served in miluim (reserve duty) this past year, my entire community sorely missed him and his ability to revive our spirits with a word, a smile, a glance. In this dark year filled with tragedy and loss, we needed his clarity of vision and his confidence. And whenever he could, Rav Avi sent messages and voice notes to his family, to our community, to his students at the Himmelfarb High School (a high school that, like so many schools in Israel, has seen the loss of too many alumni in this war), and to countless other groups and communities he was involved in. Somehow, his confidence and faith that this hard time would lead us to a better future was powerful enough to reach us through pixels and sound waves, providing support for all who received his messages, even in the darkest of times.
Who will raise us up now, when it is the loss of Rav Avi himself that darkens our world like an irrevocable eclipse?
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Rav Avi was never simply Rav Avi for those of us who knew him. He was part of “Avi and Rachel,” a unit so closely knit, so harmonious and beautiful, that it feels wrong to think of the two of them apart. Avi, a clarinet prodigy, married Rachel, a gifted violinist, 21 years ago, and the two of them went on together to do good wherever they could. Together, they made music for us and so many others to lead us into joy, into a feeling of closeness to God. Together, they traveled to Memphis as shlichim (emissaries), lived there for three years, and left an indelible mark on so many locals. Together, they were raising their eight wonderful children to follow in their footsteps and treat every moment as an opportunity to do something meaningful, as one of the daughters said in her eulogy last night. Together, they opened their house to gatherings that spread good in the world, to the point that my family took to calling their home the “community center” of our street.
Many of the people who came to Avi and Rachel’s home for those gatherings became lifelong friends. We hailed from different sectors, different lifestyles, and different beliefs. During the protests and counterprotests surrounding judicial reform, Rav Avi and Rachel often hosted people who fought for opposing goals. In their home, however, the two sides came together in the hope of reaching common ground. This devotion to connecting people across divides continues, despite Rav Avi’s tragic death: the family asked those politicians who wish to attend the shivah to come in pairs, coalition members with opposition members.
Even when Avi and Rachel were not together, their support for one another was palpable, to the degree that the other was present in spirit. Twenty years ago, Rav Avi began organizing and leading Yom Kippur prayers at the secular kibbutz Ginosar. For many members of the kibbutz, he was the first religious person they had ever gotten to know. Despite his beard, his large kipah, and his unwavering belief in Torah and Jewish law, he broke through every barrier and preconception against him that might have prevented his welcome, thanks to his warmth, humility, and “maor panim” — his inner light.
Even though Avi went to Ginosar without Rachel, it was her support and willingness to manage without him on the fast day that made his attendance there possible. And Rachel’s support stemmed from the same spiritual wellspring as Avi’s initiative: their shared belief that humanity is on earth to do good, wherever and however it is possible to do so.
It was the same wellspring of strength and dedication that led this couple’s three eldest children to go to Ginosar this past Yom Kippur, and take their father’s place here when their father was in the reserves, in Lebanon. And it was the same wellspring that led him to the reserves in the first place, to serve — despite his yearning to be with his family and loved ones — because serving was the right and good thing to do. In the same way that leading prayers in Ginosar, just like bridging divides within Israeli society, just like teaching Torah, caring for his students, and sending uplifting voice notes to his community were the right things to do.
* * *
When my community heard on Sunday morning that Rav Avi had fallen in battle, it was already a community in mourning. Only hours earlier, we had all heard of the death of Eliav Abitbul, brother of our dear community member Aderet Sompolinsky. Like Rav Avi and his wife Rachel, Aderet is one of the leaders of the community, and her pain tore through us. I spent the evening with my sister, who had been Eliav’s friend since their school days, trying to grapple with this impossible loss. Eliav, who was always kind and good-hearted. Eliav, who donated a kidney two years ago and insisted on continuing to serve in reserve duty even though he was already exempt. Eliav, who, together with his wife Tal, served as a parent figure for children who could not live with their own families of origin, and cared about and for them with so much passion and devotion that, in my sister’s words, he had four children, but he left many more orphans.
If Eliav’s death brought my community to its knees, the revelation, a few hours later, that Rav Avi had been killed in the same battle laid us out flat. And so I ask: How much more can we take? How much more can we bear?
I know what Rav Avi would say, were he here to hear my question.
He would say: We can and will bear anything. Not because we, individually, have superhuman powers, but because we are so much more than individuals. We are a nation fighting for a better future, for a world worthy of sanctifying God’s name. And in this war, in this noble and ancient endeavor, we stand tall, like Rav Avi always did — because we have conviction to stiffen our spines, the deeds of previous generations to inspire us, and our hopes for the future to propel us forward with strength.
“The war is… a war for our home,” Rachel said last night, standing over her husband’s grave. “But in its essence, it’s a war for justice, for the good, for light, for togetherness, and for morality. And in this war, we will win!…. Each person in their own place, through the daily choices to do, speak, and see good, each person in their own roles, their own missions, their own words.”
* * *
Rav Avi is no longer here with his smiles, his words, his open heart, his kind eyes, his beautiful Torah. And the world is dimmer and darker for his loss, for the loss of Eliav, and the loss of so many other wonderful people. But it is in our hands to add light to this darker world. We can choose, in Rachel’s powerful words, to do, speak, and see good. It is up to us now to uplift ourselves and each other. It is up to us to remind ourselves of what we are fighting for, and to go on doing good in Avi’s stead.