Yesterday, while waiting in line at the Space Needle in Seattle, I got the news that Rabbi David Wucher had died. I can’t overestimate what a personal loss this is for me. Twenty-two years ago, I was 21 and without much direction spiritually. For reasons not important for this story, I had left the Christian roots of my childhood behind and found myself, like the vast majority of the species, seeking meaning, seeking something greater than myself, and seeking a way to connect to it.
I was living on Kanawha Terrace and 13th Street in Huntington, just a few blocks from B’nai Sholom, and working at the Huntington Museum of Art. It was at the museum that I met amazing women such as Rose Riter, Joan Lerner, and Joyce Levy. Joyce invited me to attend the Bar Mitzvah of her grandson, and since it was just a short walk from my apartment, and I had very little to do on a Saturday morning, I went. From the moment I set foot in the sanctuary I felt welcomed and at home. There could have been no better person to be my introduction to the faith and religion than Rabbi Wucher. I already knew that I loved the people, and the love of the ritual, liturgy, language, and music came quickly. I immediately began the weekly practice of attending Friday evening erev Shabbat services, a practice that I kept faithfully and without exception for as long as I lived in Huntington. Week after week I would learn, not just the liturgy and the history of the Jewish people, but more about baseball than I ever cared to know, and generally how to be a Mensch from Rabbi Wucher.
Judy Williams coerced me into joining the choir and my knowledge and love of Judaism continued to deepen. It also allowed for more, and more personal time with Rabbi and Tori Wucher and my fondness for them grew deeper. Leaving B’nai Sholom was the hardest thing about moving to Cincinnati and I always tried to arrange trips home to include an evening there. Rabbi Wucher always asked how I was and would give some interesting tidbit of information about wherever I was living, usually about baseball. If he saw me, but couldn’t get to talk to me, he would, just like his mother Violet had done, flash me the Vulcan “Live Long and Prosper” hand sign.
After 5 years of services and life cycles, I was ready to commit. My conversion to Judaism officially was overseen by Rabbi Wucher. Our regular one on one meetings to discuss my knowledge and commitment to Judaism still remain as some of my fondest memories. When the discussion came about choosing a Hebrew name, I asked if it would be okay for me to honor him, and all that he had done for me, to choose David as my middle name. And so, on June 23, 2006, under the supervision of Rabbi David Wucher, I became Daniel David Ben Avraham V’Sarah.
Today is Friday and in accordance with Jewish custom, the funeral was scheduled for today, before sunset. I am nearly 3,000 miles away and travelling by train so I could not attend in person. One good thing that came from COVID was that “community” became no longer purely physical and I was able to fulfill the mitzvah of helping bury the dead by watching the funeral on YouTube. The downside of that is that it left me ugly crying in a busy train station in Seattle.
As I have moved around, I have sought congregations and Rabbis and places to feel at home and I have been taught and comforted by some awesome Rabbis, Sandford Kopnick, Jean Eglinton, and David Spey to name a few, but no one can ever be such an integral part of whom I have become as a Jew and as a man as David Wucher. I know for sure, that for me, his name IS a blessing. זיכרונו לברכה🖖