By Rabbi David Bibi
Recently, while giving a class, I found myself mentioning Rabbi Abittan no less than three times. His teachings, his wisdom—they are still very much alive in everything we do.
A guest who had come to spend Shabbat with us approached me after class and asked, “Who is this rabbi you keep mentioning?” And then he asked, “Are you the rabbi?”
I told him, “No, I’m just filling in for Rabbi Abittan.”
Then he asked, “How long have you been filling in?”
I answered, “Nineteen years and twenty-two weeks.”
Because that’s when Rabbi Abittan passed away. And in my mind, I’m still just filling in—because to me, he is still our rabbi.
And so, as I stand here before you this morning, I do so only briefly, in a way, representing the rabbi who loved David Golden and the entire Golden and Rosenberg family very, very much.
Whenever I begin a eulogy, I remind everyone that the purpose of hesped is not only to honor the person who has passed, but to inspire the living. To walk away different from how we walked in. To allow the life of the manoach, the one who has departed, to elevate our own.
Yesterday, the world lost one of its oldest living souls, and we—our community—lost one of its strongest pillars. Mr. David Golden passed away peacefully just one day after celebrating his 110th birthday. He slipped away from this world as if guided gently by a malach, holding the hand of his aide—a departure our tradition calls mitat neshika, the “kiss of Heaven,” a parting reserved for the truly righteous.
Mr. Golden had asked me many times over the years to speak at his funeral. It was a request I accepted with a heavy sense of responsibility—because how do you put into words a life that spanned over a century, filled with so much impact, insight, and inspiration?
He was deeply devoted to his beloved wife, Ethel, whom he married in 1940 and remained committed to until her passing in 2006—66 years of marriage. Mrs. Golden’s funeral was the first I ever officiated, shortly after Rabbi Abittan’s passing. I stood there with trepidation, unsure, but David stood by me and encouraged me.
He never stopped talking about her. Even in her absence, she remained close—always present in his heart and in his stories. Their home on West Penn Street was not just a residence; it was a living museum of their shared life—books, art, photos, plants, and memories.
He was a father to Joseph and Robert and Pearl, and through them, a source of pride and joy. But he was also, in a very real way, a grandfather to so many of us in this congregation. We all felt it—whether we were stopping by to visit him after Shabbat tefillah, or he was offering a word of encouragement to us, he made each of us feel seen.
I’ve told this story before, but it bears repeating. When my Israeli grandson Yosef, born in 2015, met Mr. Golden—born in 1915—at his 108th birthday, Yosef looked at him and said he had just one question: “What was it like to see Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig play in Yankee Stadium a hundred years ago?”
A full century apart, and yet something about David made him feel entirely present—anchored in the past, fully alive in the moment. And what does it say about a person who can so easily connect with a child a hundred years his junior, and make that child feel heard in return?
Judaism teaches that long life is a blessing—arichut yamim—but it’s not just about length. It’s about how the time is used. Our Rabbis say that one who lives past a hundred has achieved a unique level of blessing (Bava Batra 121b), and Mr. Golden lived it to the fullest. He read a book a week. He walked two miles daily until he was 103, resumed after heart surgery, and only slowed down when absolutely necessary.
And perhaps there was a deeper reason for his strength. Just last week, I shared with a class the words of the Sforno, who teaches: “All deterioration that happens to the body is because of conflict of opposites.” Meaning—disease and aging are born of inner strife. If we live with internal peace, if we quiet the daily worries and realize that everything we have is from Hashem, we can live longer. Mr. Golden embodied that. He lived with clarity, with simplicity, and with deep, steady faith. His long life was not just a gift—it was a reflection of the peaceful, purposeful way he moved through the world.
One of the most inspiring aspects of Mr. Golden’s character was his unwavering respect and appreciation for his parents and in-laws. He would often speak about his father-in-law, Mr. Charles Rosenberg, with great reverence. In an era when few undertook in-depth Talmud study, Mr. Rosenberg completed the entire Shas—a feat that David took immense pride in. “That wasn’t with Artscroll and podcasts,” he’d remind me. “That was real learning—2,711 pages of in-depth Gemara.”
David ensured that both his own parents and his in-laws were remembered and honored properly. The dedication plaques in our lobby aren’t just names on a wall—they are David’s way of ensuring that those who came before him are not forgotten. It was his personal expression of kibbud av va’em and kavod le’chamav, keeping their memory alive in the heart of the synagogue he loved.
One of the defining traits of Mr. Golden was his fierce loyalty and sense of justice. When I faced tension or criticism, it was Mr. Golden—at 100 years old!—who stepped up to the pulpit to defend me.
And when a congregant once interrupted my sermon, he stood up, walked to the bimah, and in front of the entire room declared: “No one disrespects my Rabbi.” That moment will live with me forever.
Mr. Golden was a mefarnes—a provider—not just to his family but to this synagogue. Over the last decade, it was his generosity that literally kept the lights on. His name is engraved on plaques in our lobby, but more importantly, his legacy is etched into the heart of this community. He was honored by the ZOA for his dedication to Am Yisrael and regularly pressed me, urged me, to inspire young people to cherish the land and state of Israel.
He would challenge me—demand progress—hold me accountable in the most loving way. He became, in many ways, a mentor.
