I got the word sitting in a class on police chaplaincy. Somehow I could see the twinkle in his eye and his impish grin. And that made me smile. Because words fail.

My thesis advisor died today. Rabbi Dr. Bernard Zlotowitz, of blessed memory. He always thought the Rabbi title should come first because it was more important than his doctorate. He was a formal instructor having been raised by his German professors. In class we would be called on in alphabetical order, with title. Ms. Klein followed by Dr. Levinson. He was always Rabbi. If you called his house, his wife, his partner, Shirley, after inquiring how you were would say, “Hold on. I’ll get Rabbi for you.” Perhaps that is why when people call me Rabbi without the rest of my name, I am not comfortable. I am not Rabbi . Only Rabbi Zlotowitz has that name. And while he was always Rabbi, he was a down-to-earth guy.

He was much more than my thesis advisor. He was my champion. When others doubted whether I would ever be ordained, he went to bat for me. He mapped out an academic program that worked. He appointed Rabbi Peg Kershenbaum to help edit the thesis so that all the “t’s were crossed and all the footnotes consistent. When I would uncover a new insight, that grin would light up the room.

Rabbi and I argued over the role of Sharon in the 1982 incursion into Lebanon. We argued over the word rayecha in “Love your rayacha like yourself.” Does it mean neighbor, fellow, kinsman, friend? I taught that argument just this morning. We argued over the meaning of chesed, and whether grace was a Jewish concept or something only Christians discuss. I am not sure we ever finished those conversations. They will have to wait until the world-to-come. But he was a man filled with chesed, lovingkindness, of that there is no doubt. However you translate it.

I had several classes with Rabbi Z as I fondly called him. Reform Judaism. Responsa. Isaiah. Job. It was in Job’s class where we learned how to comfort a mourner. With silence. Without any words at all. Just with presence.

And Rabbi Z had a presence that filled a room. He was a consummate storyteller. Some of them we heard over and over. And that was OK—because every time we heard them they seemed new and even wiser. Many have already been written and rewritten today as the tributes have poured in. Each one makes me smile. He would tell a story about when he was in rabbinical school. His professor, recently from Germany, would say, “Boychiks, today we are going to study the basement of Judaism.” His professor had confused basement and foundation. Every time I pushed the elevator button for my basement office at SAP in Germany I would smile.

He was filled with practical advice. He was a rabbi who made house calls—but always taking his wife Shirley or his secretary with him. When he because a regional director for UAHC (now URJ), he took on New York and the Caribbean, guaranteeing a warm winter vacation if he went to Puerto Rico on business first.

He was a scholar. No question. But he was a people person first. He took real interest in his students. And their families. When my daughter was struggling the most with her chronic daily migraine, he always remembered to ask. If he saw a new treatment in the Times, he would call. When my mother was dying—they actually shared a birthday—he would check in. When my daughter graduated from Hofstra cum laude, it was hard to tell who was prouder, me and Simon or Rabbi Z, who broke out into that big grin. And he always, without fail remembered to ask on the phone as recently as two weeks ago how her acting career is doing. So did Shirley.

There were some sentences that became Zlotowitzisms. If you sneezed in class his automatic response was “You sneezed on the truth.” Now I once had a Bar Mitzvah student who started sneezing just at his aliyah blessing. I told the story, attributing my own teacher, Rabbi Zlotowitz, and everyone laughed. Now it is also true that when I am about to cry, I sneeze. It seems to be my defense mechanism, an unusual one I am told. Even as I write these words and start to tear I know I am also about to sneeze.

We learned in that Responsa class whether students should rise before a scholar or not. We learned whether they should sit ahead of their teacher or behind their teacher in the beit midrash. Ultimately it was about respect, Rabbi Z would explain. Today, we know that it is more than respect. It is love.

It is said that teacher’s students become their children. Rabbi Zlotowitz had many students. We are all his children and we have lost a great mentor and friend.

Apparently I wrote the last thesis under Rabbi Zlotowitz advisement. He was scheduled to be part of my beit din but was not well enough to attend. I journeyed out to Fair Lawn and he graciously signed the smicha document at his home.

His presence goes with me. Always. And in between my tears and my sneeze, I smile.