What Will They Say About You When You’re Gone? Living A Memorable Life

Yom Kippur - 2025/5786 - Rabbi David Baum

The day after I got back to shul after my summer vacation, I had a meeting set for 9:00 am with a congregant whom I’ve known for 15 years. Going into it, I didn’t expect anything out of the ordinary, maybe a check-in, but as soon as he sat down, he began:

“Rabbi, you are the third person who knows this. I went to a doctor recently, and I was diagnosed with dementia, I have three years until the effects of it will settle in. I want you to help me write my eulogy.” It was, needless to say, a moment I will never forget. In short, he was saying: I have three years left of being me, and I want control over how I’ll be remembered. The congregant in my office wasn’t the first person with this crisis, and he won’t be the last. It’s an age old problem. How will I be remembered? 

In 1888, Alfred Nobel mistakenly read his own obituary, which branded him the “merchant of death” for profiting from the patent his family held for dynamite. Horrified, he resolved to change his legacy, leaving his fortune to create the Nobel Prizes. Without that mistaken obituary, the world and the Jewish people, who’ve earned 25% of those prizes, might never have felt the world-saving effects of the Nobel Prizes. 

Reading his own obituary was a wake-up call for Alfred Nobel: if you want to be remembered in a certain way, you have to live your life in a certain way. 

We are the only being that knows that we will die, and we have no idea when that day will come. And think about, if you could know, would you want to know? 

Psalm 90 teaches us otherwise: “Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” Judaism doesn’t just ask us to count the years of our life, but to make each day count, knowing that we do not know when it will end, nor would we want to. 

Rabbi Eliezer goes a step further: “שׁוּב יוֹם אֶחָד לִפְנֵי מִיתָתְךָ” “Repent one day before your death.” The question is, how can you repent if you don’t know the day that you are going to die? The answer of course is, repent every day, because, as we know, every day can be your last. 

This is Judaism’s response. Live every day like it is your last, but not for indulgences; live every day like it is your last so you can be pure, like today, on Yom Kippur.

So, how does one live every day like your last? Rabbi Daniel Cohen has some wisdom to share in his book, What Will They Say About You When You Are Gone? Creating a Life of Legacy. 

In short, he says, first, you have to redesign your life, how do you want to be remembered. 

Then, start living your life in that way. 

I want to thank our longtime chaver, Bill Miller. Although he runs a wealth advisory firm, his true passion lies in the Jewish community. Years ago, when he and his wife, Tanya, were honored by the Federation and invited Alissa and me as their guests. He shared a story from Rabbi Daniel Cohen’s book that stuck with me, and not just because he referenced a Christmas story at a Jewish gathering. 

Bill spoke about George Bailey from It’s a Wonderful Life — a man whose dreams were set aside so he could care for others, who was willing to give his life so his loved ones could live on with financial sustenance. But on Christmas Eve, George nearly ends his life after an economic crisis that will bankrupt his family. At the last moment, his guardian angel, Clarence, shows him what the world would look like without him, and George discovers the difference he’s made in life just by living. 

Bill then turned the question to us: What would our world look like without the Jewish Federation? For his family, it would mean no Jewish day school for his kids, no trips to Israel, no strong Jewish identity passed to the next generation. And for us, the question becomes: What would our CSK family be missing without you?

I thanked Bill for his powerful words and asked him, Why did you invite me specifically? He said, “I knew that if I were going to tell a Christmas story at a Jewish gathering, it had to be under Rabbinic supervision." But all jokes aside, he told me how much Alissa and I meant to his family all these years, and he wanted us there during their special moment. 

That exchange made me think about how each of us wants to be remembered, not just by our families, but by each individual who makes up our cherished communities. 

There are questions I want you to bring home today, but here’s a question I want you to meditate on right now. 

For instance, you have five words to write on your headstone: What are they? 

Here are some I came up with: 

Descendent of Survivors and Thrivers

Husband, father, son, brother, rabbi

He Loved His People Always

Loved Torah, Israel, and Jews

He opened gates of holiness

We can imagine the words that might one day be etched in stone, but words alone are not enough. If we want to be remembered that way, we have to live that way.

They are the basics of course, be a good person, a good parent, a good friend, a good Jew, but I found a short cut. The Jews have our own version of Clarence the guardian angel. We call him, Elijah the prophet. But rather than search for Elijah himself, we have to search for Elijah moments. 

Three hundred years ago, the Ba’al Shem Tov, founder of Hasidism, taught the lesson on how to seize Elijah moments to one of his students, Mendel, who had a weird obsession. He desperately wanted to meet Elijah the prophet, more than anything in the world. At every holiday he asked, “Rebbe, when will I see him?” The Ba’al Shem Tov would only reply, “Later, later.”

Finally, before Pesach, the Ba’al Shem Tov said, “This year you will finally see Elijah the Prophet. Take a horse and wagon, fill it with matzah, wine, and food for a seder, and travel into the mountains. In a small village, look for a red house with a white door and a blue mezuzah. There you will find Eliyahu.”

Mendel set off, heart pounding. He found the house, knocked, and a poor couple answered. “We have no matzah, no wine, no seder plate,” they said sadly. Mendel smiled, “I have brought everything. Let us celebrate together.”

That night was the most joyous seder the couple had ever known. Mendel waited eagerly for the moment the door opened for Eliyahu, but no one appeared. He stayed for the second night. Still nothing. 

Frustrated, Mendel returned to his teacher. The Ba’al Shem Tov simply told him, “Go back, again with a wagon full of food.” Mendel obeyed.

As he approached the red house, he heard voices inside: “We have nothing for the last days of Pesach. Gornisht!” The husband reassured his wife: “Don’t worry. God sent us Eliyahu once; surely he will come again tonight.”

At that moment, Mendel realized where Eliyahu was.

The Ba’al Shem Tov taught that Elijah is not some distant prophet we wait for, but a moment of compassion and presence we can create for others, whether they are there in body or spirit. I learned this lesson at a funeral I officiated in 2012 — for a man I had never met in life, but who taught me about what it means to live, even in death. He was a 42-year-old man named Jeff, whose Hebrew name was Yosef Moshe Ben Tzvi Hersch V’Leah. 

Unfortunately, his family wasn’t very forthcoming with information about him. He never married, struggled with his health, and his family shared little about his life.

I thought: what could I say about him, with so little information? What impact did he make in his life? So I shared what I thought was special, how he treated his family. He cared deeply for his mother, calling her every night, and treated his nieces and nephews as if they were his own children. He never forgot a birthday or holiday, even when it meant giving beyond his means. 

I added that it wasn’t just his family who felt this way. After Jeff died, his Facebook page filled with stories from friends, coworkers; even casual acquaintances. People spoke about his kindness, his humor, and how he made others feel seen. 

Seeing those comments and hearing about the small but vital actions he took in the world for his family and friends, it became clear to me that, although Jeff’s time on earth was short, he lived a good life. 

It was an okay eulogy, but honestly, I knew that it didn’t really reveal who this guy was in life. But I doubted my own words; was I truly able to share what I saw in Jeff in those short words? 

In that moment, I invited the final speaker. A big, imposing man, about 6”4 who looked like he played Left tackle for the Dolphins, came up to the podium. It was the guest who approached me earlier. I looked up at him, he held out his huge hand and said, “Hi, Rabbi, my name is Sarge.” Sarge asked me if he could say a couple of words, as he was close to Jeff. I said, “Sure, but did you write out your words? People can get a little flustered speaking in front of a crowd, especially at a funeral.” He said, “Don’t worry, rabbi, I dabble in public speaking.” 

Sarge got up and began his words with the following: “Rabbi Baum, thank you for letting me speak. I asked the rabbi what Jeff will be buried with. He told me, ‘Just a garment and his talit.” So I asked him, “Can I put something in there that meant the world to him.” He gave me permission. So Jeff, I’m leaving you a pastrami sandwich from your favorite deli.” And he pulled out a sandwich and put it on the casket. The crowd erupted with laughter. 

Sarge went on to give the funniest and most touching eulogy that I’ve ever heard. He shared in details how Jeff was that kind guy that I spoke about in stories he shared, and how much he loved his sports teams, and of course, hot pastrami on rye with deli mustard.

But he also shared painful things. Like how Jeff lived in shame because he was gay, and never felt comfortable sharing that with his family and friends. To compensate, he ate his feelings. Sarge prayed for a world where people like Jeff could live openly and share the fullness of their lives with their family and friends. The eulogy was a mixture of tears, happy and profoundly sad. 

In many ways, that’s what a Jewish eulogy is meant to be. The Shulchan Arukh, Rabbi Yosef Karo’s 16th-century code, teaches: it is a mitzvah to speak words that break the heart and recall a person’s virtues, but not to exaggerate. We may add a little, but not to the point of lying. 

A eulogy isn’t about painting a perfect picture. It is about truth spoken with love. In a eulogy, we should tell enough of the story so that a person’s life is remembered in its fullness: their virtues, their struggles, the ways they made others laugh, and the ways they made others cry. The point is to elicit tears, both happy and sad. 

That’s what Sarge and I did together for Jeff. We threaded the needle, not pretending he was someone he wasn’t, and raising the goodness that was there in Jeff. 

At the graveside, I arrived early with Sarge, and we got to know each other. He told me he was born in Miami Beach to a Jewish mother and Black father, adopted as an infant, and raised in New York. Despite early success as a gifted musician and performer, his life spiraled into addiction and even homelessness. In 1990, he made the choice for sobriety, rebuilt his life, and became a comedian, traveling the country and inspiring others in recovery. Sarge noticed my minivan and asked if I had kids. I showed him pictures of Avi and Harrison, and he lit up as he shared photos of his own son. A single dad who traveled often, he said that performing thrilled him, but nothing compared to the time he spent with his child. In that moment, he wasn’t “Sarge” the comedian — he was just a dad, like me, albeit about a foot taller. 

At the end, we all got into our cars without saying goodbye. 

It was right before the high holidays, and I thought, 'Why not let him know that he really made a difference for this guy, Jeff, and that he gave him an incredible send-off?' I sent him this letter on September 10, 2012

Dear Sarge,

First off, I wanted to tell you how impressed I was with your speech at the funeral yesterday, but more than the speech, the care and compassion you showed to the grieving family.  You seem to have a special connection with many people, and the way you care for others is truly a model for the Jewish community. You gave Jeff a send-off that few have ever gotten in my short career. Thank you for that gift. 

I must also say that I was impressed with your modesty!  When you told me, "I'm a public speaker," you didn't mention your impressive career!  When I got home, I told my family about the funeral and about your speech.  My mother-in-law asked, "His name is Sarge?  He's a black Jew, right?  We have seen him on many cruises and he is hilarious, an awesome comic!"  One of my New Year's resolutions for Rosh Hashanah is to thank the unsung Mensches in our Jewish community and beyond, and you have shown yourself to be one of them.  You were like Elijah the prophet on that day, and it was an amazing thing to be experience. 

Your son should be proud of his Abba.  Shanah Tovah u'metukah, have a good and sweet New Year, and may you be written in the book of life and good fortune.

Sincerely,

Rabbi David Baum

On April 6, 2025, 12 years, 6 months, 27 days later, I received the following reply: 

Dear Rabbi, 

I was looking back in the archives and was heart-warmed to re-read your beautiful letter. I read it often. Hope you’re doing great, and wanted to send my love 

Best,

Sarge

When was the last time you wrote a real letter to someone you love? When was the last time you wrote to an acquaintance or even a random person that you admire? 

During Elul, I have a practice of writing letters. They aren’t long or fancy; it’s not Shakespeare. Just simple notes of thanks, apology, or encouragement. Sometimes it’s to an old friend I haven’t seen in years, sometimes to someone going through a hard time who needs to know they matter.

It may sound unbelievable, but it’s not. You, too, can be an Elijah for someone, and in doing so, you can write yourself into the book of life. 

Now imagine that it has been a wonderful life, imagine if this was the last time you took a breath. In his book, Rabbi Cohen tells the story of Rabbi Emanuel Feldman, once a prominent rabbi in Atlanta. He recalled the most difficult question he’d ever been asked as a rabbi. A desperate woman called to say she needed to see him. When they met, he asked how he could help. She told him she had cancer of the larynx and would soon have her larynx removed, which was before the modern voice box, and that she would never speak again. Then she said, “Rabbi, I can choose the final words my lips will ever utter. What should they be?”

Rabbi Feldman called it the most challenging question of his career. He encouraged her to pray and reminded her that “you can pray in any language — God’s door is always open.”

On Yom Kippur, when we stand in the shadow of death and in the presence of eternity, we are asked to imagine our end. It’s not to terrify us, but to teach us how to live. My congregant wanted to write his own eulogy. Alfred Nobel rewrote his life when he saw how the world might remember him. George Bailey had to see what the world would be like without him. And Jeff’s friend Sarge reminded us that one speech, one act of love, can change how a life is remembered forever.

This day asks us, if you were to write your own last words, your eulogy, what would you choose to say? Would they be words of love, a confession of faith, a brief prayer, or a song? If you truly had only one chance left to speak, what would you say?

If that’s what you would want your final words to be, why wait? Judaism tells us: you don’t have to wait until the obituary is written, or until the obituary is mistakenly printed, to decide who you are. You write it today: with every word, every kindness, every Elijah moment.

And now that you’ve made it one more year, make sure you do something this week: Write it to a loved one, an old friend, someone who needs to hear that they matter, or someone you need to thank. 

Please don’t wait for their funeral to say what needs to be said. 

Live your life with your end in mind, and bring a little more Elijah into the world by being the best version of yourself. 

Your eulogy, then, will write itself, and you will seal yourself into the Book of Life.