One of the most magical Jews in the history of Los Angeles died yesterday.

He was mature enough to die.

He seemed so invulnerable, though — didn’t he? — that you assumed he probably never would be nifter, as Jews say.

His legacy is made of gold: Husband of two, father of 12, grandfather of 50.

His family yesterday was flying to exotic Safed in Eretz Israel where the most illustrious Jews of the last 500 years are buried.

You must have known immensely charismatic Schwartzie.

At least seen him.

He dressed like you and me, not a rabbi.

So warm, so irresistibly congenial. Even if you were in a hurry, you always cleared time for Schwartzie,

Schwartzie was sui generis.

He and Olivia hosted Shabbos dinners at their home for Jewish singles. If every couple who ultimately married said a bracha when they heard of Schwartzie’s death, he already must be sitting at G-d’s right hand, schmoozing.

He walked the streets, offering a comfortable pathway into Judaism for alienated or undereducated or curious Jews. He was G-d’s Jewish  ambassador to the planet.

Schwartzie was so genuine, he could make anti-Semites weep.

He dressed in jeans decades before it was stylish, then upscale.

He wore overalls sometimes.

Strangers, whether Jew or Gentile, never mistook him for a rabbi, just the warmest, most authentic Jew G-d ever had made.

The 10 friendliest Jews in Los Angeles cumulatively could not have matched Schwartzie’s unique appeal.

He would walk down the main street of every continent in creation and make friends with all manner of people.

He made the Pied Piper look comatose.

No matter how much you respect learned persons, you addressed him as Schwartzie, not “Rabbi Schwartz.” Never heard anyone put those words back-to-back.

He is gone. We are less well off.