Eulogy for Sheridan Simon
Yissachar hen Aharon v'Simcha
30 Nisan, 5754
11 April 1994
In 1977 a book appeared entitled The First Three Minutes. It was written by the distinguished physicist, Steven Weinberg, and in the words of Isaac Asimov, it was "the first book to put the details of the origin of the universe within the grasp of the general reader." Striking for its scrupulous scientific accuracy, and for its memorable ability to communicate with the layperson, it was notable, as well, for the philosophical musings of its conclusion, which I want to share with you this morning:
However all these (cosmological) problems may be resolved, and whichever cosmological model proves correct, there is not much of comfort in any of this. It is almost irresistible for humans to believe that we have some special relation to the universe, that human life is not just a more-or-less farcical outcome of a chain of accidents reaching back to the first three minutes, but that we were somehow built in from the beginning. As I write this I happen to be in an airplane at 30,000 feet, flying over Wyoming en route home from San Francisco to Boston. Below, the earth looks very soft and comfortable--fluffy clouds here and there, now turning pink as the sun sets, roads stretching straight across the country from one town to another. It is very hard to realize that this all is just a tiny part of an overwhelming hostile universe. It is even harder to realize that this present universe has evolved from an unspeakably unfamiliar early condition, and faces a future extinction of endless cold or intolerable heat. The more the universe seems comprehensible, the more it also seems pointless.
But if there is no solace in the fruits of our research, there is at least some consolation in the research itself. Men and women are not content to comfort themselves with tales of gods and giants, or to confine their thoughts to the daily affairs of life; they also build telescopes and satellites and accelerators, and sit at their desks for endless hours working out the meaning of the data they gather. The effort to understand the universe is one of the very few things that lifts human life a little above the level of farce, and gives it some of the grace of tragedy.
During his life, Sheridan Simon shared much with Steven Weinberg. Both were among the minuscule portion of humanity able to comprehend the equations, concepts, and rapidly changing theories about the first three minutes of the universe. Both of them took immense delight in humankind's drive to enlarge its grasp of the universe through scientific research and technological innovation. And both of them had an unusual gift for communicating their understanding to those not in their tiny circle. But one thing I am certain Sheridan did NOT share with Steven Weinberg, was Weinberg's sense that it is only by possessing some of the grace of tragedy that human life is lifted above the level of farce. And I have no doubt that Sheridan's entire being would have hollered "nonsequitur" at Weinberg's apparent inference that if the universe as a whole is pointless, then so are the human lives which inhabit the space we call our world.
For in his living, and in his dying, Sheridan demonstrated how human life can have point. He did this, of course, in the obvious way, with those myriad achievements that fill the pages of a curriculum vitae: teaching awards, books and articles of science and science fiction, computer software and imaginary planets, and expertise in Anglo-Saxon history. But Sheridan's life had point in a sense both deeper and rarer than this. It is the sense of the Psalmist who wrote: "So teach us to number our days, that we may get us a heart of wisdom" (Psalms 90:12). The heart of wisdom to which the Psalmist refers is not simply the external reward that comes from our paying enough attention to our days that we don't waste them. Rather, it is something we can achieve only when counting our days provides us with an account of our life. We gain a heart of wisdom, the Psalmist tells us, when we can make sense of the days of our life, when our life has point to us.
Sheridan was five years old when he announced that he wanted to be an astrophysicist; six when he began reading science fiction. (Surely it comes as no surprise that Sheridan was a gifted child.) From those early moments, until his semi-lucid, dying struggles to solve a mathematical equation, he knew the point of his life. There were no psychological crises--no identity crises, no mid-life crisis, no disabling ambivalence and conflict. Sheridan knew who he was. His aspirations were clear and wholehearted. His goals always in sight. The hard work these goals entailed, cheerfully faced. He had found his niche in this universe of untold dimensions, and he delighted in it, confident of its value.
It took Sheridan 18 years after deciding to be an astrophysicist, to make Rose a part of the point of his life. But he was blessed with the same directness and certainty in his marriage as in his career, and during their nearly 24 years together, he and Rose created an extraordinary bond, born of unbounded mutual love, respect, sharing and devotion.
The ancient Rabbis ask, "Who is a rich person?" And they reply, "Whoever delights in his portion." From his adored mother, Sylvia--whose Hebrew name, "Simcha," means delight--Sheridan learned the importance of finding a portion in which to delight. Like her, he possessed the riches contained in a heart of wisdom.
Sheridan's portion, like his father Aaron's and his mother's, was a life of teaching. When he declared at age five that he wanted to be an astrophysicist, Sheridan was not simply expressing a precocious wonderment about the universe. He was announcing, as well, that he would follow his mother--a much beloved junior college English teacher--into college teaching. The oldest of five children, Sheridan was already a practiced teacher by the time he left for university. One can't but smile, imagining a youthful Sheridan, whipping out his little spiral notebook from his shirt pocket to explain some point to Esther, or Beth, or Dave or Joey.
Sheridan's passion for teaching was as authentic and pure as his love of physics. He was utterly impervious to the blandishments of academic status and material wealth which our society accords research over teaching. He had little regard for those whose knowledge was locked inside them, or who lacked any desire to share it with others. And he had no use for those who would use their intelligence to impress others. Learning and teaching were for him utterly inseparable. His pride in his work was a pride in doing something which could benefit others. Without even a hint of self-righteousness, Sheridan's life was utterly and firmly grounded in a moral, one might even say, religious, sensibility.
Sheridan's gifts as a teacher were as rare as the purity of his passion. Wherein did these gifts lie? In his brilliance? Yes. In his mastery of his subject? Of course. In his capacity for lucid, concrete, and vivid explanation? Again, yes. But there is another factor, one whose roots lie in magic or the supernatural. Sheridan had charm. In describing this charm, his sister Esther quoted a 19th-century Frenchman: charm is that quality in someone which makes us feel good or special about ourselves. Sheridan made his students feel good about themselves by radiating the unequivocal message that they truly mattered to him, that he respected them, cared for them, and had confidence in them; that they were as worthy as he was.
And, of course, there was the humor. Who could resist it? All of us, I'm sure, treasure our favorite memories etched indelibly on our minds and sewn into the reflexes of our viscera. For my part, I will never forget when he reduced a roomful of friends to stitches simply by reading--not in an entirely sober state, of course--the label on a bottle of wine. Or his 30th birthday party, when he grabbed a huge knife and set about in samurai fashion--sound effects and all-carving his birthday cake into 17 equal parts, icing flying in all directions. Sheridan's humor was part of his charm, as omnipresent and irresistible in physics class or lab, as at a party.
In his living, Sheridan demonstrated how life can have point. And in his dying, this demonstration grew only more compelling. A year ago, doctors at Duke told Sheridan that in all likelihood, he had only one year to live. "Do whatever you want in that year," they urged him. And so he did. He continued to live the very life he had been leading before his illness. This was his life. His account of his days, his heart of wisdom, lay in the very passions and commitments which he embodied daily.
Day by day, this determination not to run away from his life took more and more courage. The pain increased. The exhaustion mounted. And yet, just three nights before his death, Sheridan was still in the classroom, still reaching out to others, still using every bit of his energy to make the lives of others better.
Sheridan's life was truly remarkable: It was remarkable for its myriad accomplishments; it was remarkable for its unwavering commitments; it was remarkable for its courage; it was remarkable for the inspiration and insight it gave to countless others; it was remarkable for its lack of regret, and for its lack of self-pity; it was remarkable for its utter lack of selfconsciousness about just how remarkable it was; and In Memory of Sheridan A. Simon (1947-1994) finally, it was remarkable for its optimism--alive to the very last--about the future of our planet.
The premature end of this remarkable life has left us numb and empty and sick. None of us can imagine all of the ways, large and subtle, that we will miss Sheridan. We know only that all of us: his loving family, Rose, Esther and Leon, Beth and Andy, Dave and Elena, Joey and Annette, Steve and Ann, Howard, Howard Jr. and Kathy; his closest coworkers, Rex and Thom; his colleagues; his current and former students; his friends; even the little furry animals with whom he had a seemingly miraculous ability to communicate; all of us will have to adjust our lives--our emotions and expectations and habits--to Sheridan's absence.
The adjustment will not be easy, nor will it be quick. We will need guidance and support. But most of all, we will need an unflagging conviction that life can have point. It is just this lesson that Sheridan taught us day after day, in his living and in his dying. Take it to heart my friends. Let it steel us against the seductive musings of Steven Weinberg. And as we face the future, let us do all that we can to make that future the one about which Sheridan dreamed, and in which he had so much faith.
Jonathan W. Makno Guiford Cortege