The Gospel According to Luke
by Gabe Rosen
It's difficult to recall when I met Luke, because it felt like he'd always been such a constant, whether beaming at Nicole's side, or in form of the birthday texts that never failed to appear once you'd entered his circle. However, with the help of an old calendar, I can pinpoint the exact date: July 7, 2012. It was a festively hot Brooklyn day, and in the evening, I headed over to Nicole's new place in Bed-Stuy. After I'd wolfed down the pesto chicken and pasta she'd graciously prepared, Nicole mentioned that the guy she'd been seeing for the past year was coming by soon. As if on cue, in walked Luke, clutching a huge watermelon. He explained that some neighborhood kids were selling them outside, and how could he say no? I liked him already.
That Thanksgiving, Luke accompanied Nicole to Carmel, and cemented his commitment by braving the Wednesday night bar scene and meeting just about everyone we'd known in high school, from close friends to fringe figures who'd bearhug you while you struggled to recall their names. For many people, this would have been a trial fit for Joan of Arc, but Luke was exquisitely up to the task.
When I'd just moved to San Francisco, and half my stuff was still in boxes, Luke was one of my first houseguests. Both of us yawning from still being on East Coast time, we rallied, wandered down to a promising Peruvian place, and toasted to my new pad. Looking back, I wish I'd taken the couch and given him my bed - both because he was taller than anyone in my 100% Ashkenazi family, and because he embodied hospitality. Since Luke died, I’ve certainly been more prone to dwelling on missed opportunities to make a meaningful gesture or introduction. But that's the thing - you can only pay it forward, as Luke understood better than anyone.
It may sound like faint praise, but one of Luke's signature attributes was his modesty. He never had to say he felt humbled, because he already was. While "networking" is so often driven by ego, Luke's efforts were driven by thoughtfulness, a quality that shone in his facial expressions and speech patterns. Getting results for his clients, and helping a legion of friends, acquaintances, and strangers, were accomplishments that he trusted - rightly - to speak for themselves.
Accordingly, Luke was fiercely proud of Nicole - not as a reflection of his own discernment, but out of unflinching admiration, respect, and support. Luke's occasional social media kvelling was the most genuine, charming thing. He never forgot for a moment how lucky he was.
Some of my favorite conversations with Luke concerned sports, largely because his style of fandom was as mellow as mine is maniacal. Most notably, after the 2017 Big Game, an excruciating, low-scoring affair, Luke texted me "Well, we got it done. Even if not entirely pretty." A Stanford classmate of head football coach David Shaw, Luke would ask me before each season how we were looking this year. I'd respond with some rambling tirade, including a detailed analysis of the backup nose tackle situation, then disclaim "sorry, probably a longer answer than you were looking for", as Luke gently assured me otherwise. Basketball was also among Luke's loves, and I used to joke that he must have seen the impending collapse of the Stanford men's program coming when he chose Duke for his MBA. He neither confirmed nor denied this, but he was that rarest of creatures: a Duke fan who managed to be likable in his enthusiasm.
In recent years, it became a tradition to meet Luke and Nicole in Carmel after Thanksgiving or Christmas, usually at the Rio Grill, one of the few late night spots in town. We'd always sit in the bar area, where the wall was decorated with hundreds of caricatures of local characters, some famous, some just devoted regulars. On what would turn out to be the last time we all met there, we got to wondering about the mechanics of getting a spot on the wall, and I asked our waiter if it was still possible. He replied that it would take some work, but yes, it was. I have no doubt that had Luke lived nearby, he'd have ended up on that wall in record time.
The last time I saw Luke was at his birthday happy hour in the East Village. It was the night before my brother's rehearsal dinner, and we already had lots of family in town, but it felt important to be there. A few weeks before, over a Thai dinner in the West Village, I'd mentioned that my folks would be in town then, and Nicole joked about how amazing it would be if they came to the happy hour alongside us 30 and 40-something "kids". It wasn't really a joke, of course: apart from the wonderful impression they had of him from my annual gumbo feed, they would have been made to feel right at home. When the time came, everyone was a bit stressed out about the wedding weekend. I even hesitated a bit, recalling my tendency to drag Karen, who is not the extrovert Luke was and I usually am, to five social events a day. But some voice inside me said "make it happen". It went without saying that Luke would have done it for us.
We got there on the early side, and Luke was in characteristically fine form, making warm introductions and ensuring no one was left looking around the bar for a friend. It felt especially good to have Karen there, and I realized that the gift of finding someone who truly gets you was something Nicole and I now had in common. But before I could reflect too deeply on this, Nicole grabbed me and said "There's someone you have to meet - I don't know what it will involve, but I just know you guys will have an amazing conversation". Sure enough, after accidentally walking past each other a few times, Anders and I were off to the races on half a dozen tantalizing topics. Nicole's read had been spot on, of course, but apart from that, it was the type of moment Luke lived to create.
I was an usher at Luke's memorial, and I naively figured that after the initial rush of attendees slowed to a trickle, I could leave my post and go inside the sanctuary to hear the remembrances. But the rush continued until the last few speakers, and every time I thought things were quieting down, more people would arrive. By the halfway point, the church entryway was teeming with little kids, some in strollers, some playing on the floor, innocent as to why we were there. I remember feeling a tinge of annoyance at all the latecomers and unruly toddlers, then a flash of shame, followed by a comforting revelation: this was the only way it could be. This river of people, in all their chaotic diversity, was the most sincere tribute possible to Luke, whose whole way of being invited you, in words sacred to '90s kids, to "come as you are."
And therein lies another lesson. Whenever people make the choice to connect, no matter how deliberately, they're surrendering to the entropy of whatever happens next, trusting that it will somehow be worthwhile. In a secular, but no less profound sense, it's a confession of faith. It’s also, I would venture, a fair definition of what it means to love.
For everyone he touched, this, too, is the Gospel According to Luke.
