The death of a teacher
12/31/2025
Jay Holstein died the other day. Most of you don’t know him. He was 87 when he died, and his time in the public eye had long passed. Or maybe you didn’t know him, but you heard of him when you were a college student. And, maybe even then, you thought he was just a small man teaching an impractical course in the obscure religion department at the University of Iowa. Who cares about a college professor who touches your life for five minutes before you are on your way to that three-car garage attached to a home in West Des Moines with the cold plunge and granite kitchen counters?
Well, like much of life, things never are as they seem. Pure and simple — Holstein was a rock star.
And, yes, he had a back story. For starters, he was a Jewish rabbi from out East. Sure, we don’t see many rabbis when we grow up in Webster City or Harlan or Strawberry Point. But, there he was, in Iowa City for the long haul. Hired in 1970 to teach Judaic Studies to Iowa college students. And, yes, you might wonder why in the world you’d take a course in Judaic Studies? Duh, because Holstein taught the course.
See, Holstein’s classes, no matter the syllabus or what he named them, were all about a single proposition — the unexamined life is no life. In every class, he demanded that we throw all our beliefs and thoughts and prejudices on the table and take a good hard look. Period. With this stripped-down rawness, he taught us all to think about life and death and morality and courage and cowardice and joy and sadness. And, we sat poleaxed as he stormed around the front of the lecture hall shouting and whispering and laughing and writing nonsense on the blackboard and then later on the overhead projector. He grabbed each of us by the throat and roared that we look at our lives. What is right? What is wrong? What are our beliefs? Why are they our beliefs?
“Look!” he demanded. There is no time for foolish dilly dallying. Life is short. And his favorite saying, spoken cooly or excitedly or sardonically: “Pick a number and make a choice.” Yikes, you mean we have to choose how to live our lives?
And, his classes grew and grew as he won teaching award after teaching award. By the time I stumbled upon him in 1972, the word was out. He had 800 students in a class. They couldn’t find lecture halls big enough at the U of I. Come see the madman at the front of the room and leave with your innocence in tatters! Yup, going to class was as dangerous as that pool table that spelled trouble “right here in River City.” It was electrifying. It was crazy. It was wonderful.
And, he was my friend.
Holstein was a runner. He ran marathons. I was not a runner. I sometimes ran to the bathroom. I decided to become a runner so I could know this man. And, I did.
He gave me two invaluable gifts as we ran up and down the hills to and from the Coralville Dam. He applauded whenever I said I didn’t know the meaning of a word he used, or didn’t understand a concept, or was flat out confused. To admit not knowing was a tremendous strength, according to him. And, he was right. It served me well my entire career as a prosecutor and served me well in my relationships. Who knew that admitting you’re a dope was so powerful? Holstein knew.
And, he told me there are always others in the room smarter than you, or more handsome, or more politically connected or more whatever. But that we all can still play the game. We can demand answers. We can speak for ourselves. We are enough. Yup, he was an early Brene Brown before shame was known as something other than a helpful tool to be inflicted by parents and religious institutions.
We ran thousands of miles together over the years. He shared his secrets and his life. I shared mine. I came to find out that he was flawed to the core like all of us. The difference was that he knew it, and he woke up every day shaking his fists at the gods like his much studied old man in Hemingway’s “Old Man and the Sea.” They say it’s not courage if you don’t know the risk when you climb out of the foxhole. He knew the risk.
A week ago, Holstein’s ex-wife and friend Ellen sent me a text while I was at my son’s wedding. Ironic for her to reach out at that time because Holstein married my wife and me 45 years earlier.
Holstein was dying, she said.
So, I made my way to him in hospice care. His eyes fluttered open, and we talked and laughed and told stories for an hour and a half. And then he slept for another hour and a half, holding my hand. The next day, he didn’t wake up when I came. Less than two days later, under Ellen’s watchful eye, he died.
A rift in the universe.
When we were talking in hospice, he said, “Listen, why don’t you die first and see what’s what and then come back and tell me. I’d do it for you, but why don’t you go first? I hate to be surprised.” Staccato laugh — but even then he stared into that space seen only by the dying.
Smiling, I promised I would come back from the dead only if he promised the same.
Deal.
So, here I am — keeping my eyes peeled for some kind of message from a small rabbi who used to teach nothing practical in the forgotten religion department at the University of Iowa.
My dear friend.
May he rest in peace. ♦
Joe Weeg spent 31 years bumping around this town as a prosecutor for the Polk County Attorney’s Office. Now retired, he writes about the frequently overlooked people, places and events in Des Moines on his blog: www.joesneighborhood.com.
