Eulogy for My Father

It’s hard for me to speak about my father’s life because in so many ways he was larger-than-life. Sui generis is what my husband called him after they first met; he later confirmed it was a compliment.

My dad grew up in Rego Park, Queens, with a close-knit family of cousins, aunts, uncles and other relatives who were always in and out of each other’s houses–and lives. Even early on, he was a nonconformist—in elementary school he was almost kicked out for asking too many questions. Luckily my grandmother—who I always viewed as a gentle, soft-spoken person—marched down to the school and gave them a piece of her mind, changing their decision.

He was later able to indulge his love of questions at Penn and then Oxford where he met my mother, his first Friday night there. He got lost on his way to the Jewish Society and as he would recount as a boy from Queens who grew up hearing everyone in Europe hated Jews he was scared to ask passersbys for help. Suddenly he saw a beautiful woman walking down the street and asked her for directions, careful to use the address and not use the words Jewish society. She responded you’re going my way and, as he liked to say, they have walked the same way ever since.

While in England, my father was able to immerse himself in the writings of philosophers like Hegel and thinkers like Marx and Engels. He was particularly interested in Jewish scholarship. I remember he once told me the only time he felt too intimidated to meet someone was when my mother brought Isaiah Berlin to speak. In general I have always been amazed by his deep and vast knowledge of things outside his own fields and his deep respect for experts in other subjects, especially Jewish textual study.

After he returned to the United States, he would eventually take the most contrary position of all–at least for the 1970s– becoming a Jewish Republican. His political affiliation like many of his other viewpoints were always due to rigorous intellectual inquiry. One thing I always admired about my father was even when I didn’t agree with him, and I often did not, I knew his views were based on real curiosity and honesty and he was open to changing and evolving his views as he learned more. That’s a philosophy we desperately need more of today.

Marshall Breger (far right) with his wife Jennifer and their daughter Sarah in the Oval Office with President Ronald Reagan in 1985. Credit: Courtesy Ronald Reagan Presidential Library

After serving in the Reagan and Bush administrations, my father turned his attention to a new interest: religious dialogue. He strongly believed that faith should be used as a way to draw people together, not pull them apart, and that the commonalities between the religiously devout could lead to bridge-building, shared understanding, and even soft diplomacy.

For his family, that meant our Friday night table was filled with pastors, imams, reverends, ayatollahs and other religious leaders from across the spectrum. It also led him to travel around the globe from Morocco and Tunisia to the Philippines and Dubai, and even Iran. One Shabbat lunch after a trip to Iran, one of our guests said, “You know, there are probably many places in the world where Marshall Breger is the only Jew they will ever meet,” adding, “I don’t know if that’s a good thing or bad thing.”

Over the past day many of his friends and colleagues have reached out. It has been incredibly meaningful to hear their stories and remembrances. One colleague wrote: “The world is a smaller place” due to Marshall’s death, adding, “But your father is for me a testament to another life, because one world is not large enough to hold a soul as great as his.” I know my father’s legacy extends in many directions around the world. But most importantly I know it will live on in my children, his grandchildren who he loved dearly. May his memory be for a blessing.