Earlier today, as I write this– as I was sleeping last night– my friend and teacher, Michael Brodman passed away after a “relatively” brief battle with recurring sepsis. Anyone who has read my collection of essays “Life is a Fountain” will be familiar with him, and how we met. I was asked to write something that could be read at graveside for his funeral this coming Sunday. I present that eulogy here, as my tribute to my beloved teacher, a man who was also a father to me.

In the first chapter of Pirkei Avot, Joshua ben Perachiah enjoins us to do two things; to find for oneself a teacher, and to acquire for oneself a friend. For me, and for so many others, this friend and this teacher was Michael Brodman. As I have written before, I can describe him in no better terms than as a martial arts tzaddik, gone out into the world.

He had a temperament like Moses, the forbearance of Hillel, the wisdom of Seneca, and the words of Takuan Soho. He was an adept psychologist, and a formidable martial artist. He was a great artist and sculptor. He was a lover and supporter of Israel and the Jewish people.

He always took the duty of Tikkun Olam very seriously. He took me under his wing and became a mentor to me. He not only trained me to be a fighter, but he taught me self-respect, confidence, sense of self-worth, responsibility… things that no one else ever tried to teach me. He helped me to become a better person.

And I have seen him do this very same thing with many people over the years. Hanshi Brodman always stretched out his hand to help wherever he saw a need. He was a loyal friend, a wise mentor, and a fierce protector. He was both kind and stern, and gave of himself without reservation to those under his care, whether as friend, father, husband, or trainer. He tended plants, and raised animals, always nurturing Life where he saw it. He helped others to bring out the gifts that were in them.  

And now, the Angel of Death has finally plucked up the courage to call Michael Brodman to Eternity. It would not surprise me to learn that he was a Lamed-Voivnik. The richness of my life will be greater for having known him, for the privilege of having been his student.

To quote another author, far greater than I, “No one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away, until the clock wound up runs down, until the wine he made has finished its ferment, until the crop he planted is harvested. The span of a man’s life is only the core of his actual existence…a man is never truly dead as long as his name is spoken.”

Good-bye, Hanshi. May your name and memory be forever a blessing.