Chabad-Lubavitch is a successful, inviting branch of the faith with
worldwide reach. But the issue of a Messiah is no small matter.
By William
Lobdell Times Staff Writer
June 22, 2004
If the non-Jewish
public is even vaguely aware of the Chabad-Lubavitch movement, it's probably
because its annual telethon draws celebrities including Adam Sandler, Michael
Douglas, James Caan, Whoopi Goldberg and Anthony Hopkins.
But within the
Jewish world, this small branch of Judaism is generating outsized levels of
interest — and concern.
On the one hand, Chabad — with its rigorous
observance of Jewish law and rabbis in long beards and wide-brimmed black hats —
has become an island of growth, innovation and success at a time of aging
synagogue memberships and stagnant population elsewhere among American
Jews.
On the other hand, there's the matter of the Messiah.
Today
thousands of Chabad faithful are expected to gather in Queens, N.Y., at the
grave of Rabbi Menachem M. Schneerson to mark the 10th anniversary of his death.
Among them will be a fair number who believe Schneerson is soon to be
resurrected.
Such passion might be ignored by mainstream Jewish leaders
if it were not for the remarkable efforts of the Brooklyn-based Lubavitchers to
foster Judaism worldwide. Last spring, they held Passover seders for travelers
and locals in Katmandu, Nepal (1,800 guests); Cuzco, Peru (800 guests); and more
than 200 cities in the former Soviet Union, Chabad officials say.
About
4,000 rabbis and their families now serve lifetime assignments in 2,700 posts in
61 countries. The number has roughly doubled in 10 years, Chabad statistics
show.
Chabad's fundraisers, including the widely publicized West Coast
telethons, bring in about $800 million annually. Around the world, $100 million
worth of projects are under construction, with a new Chabad center opening
somewhere every 10 days, movement officials say.
The projects include 45
Chabad centers on American college campuses by 2005; a $19-million, 27-acre
campus with a school and synagogue in Scripps Ranch in San Diego County; and a
recently opened $15-million, 77,000-square-foot facility on Pico Boulevard in
Los Angeles that houses a girls' preschool, elementary school and junior
high.
"I disagree with Chabad about practically everything," Rabbi Eric
H. Yoffie, leader of the liberal Reform Jewish movement, said in a speech last
year. "But I envy the selflessness of their young men and women who fan out
across the world to serve Jewish communities in distress. We must foster among
our members the same sense of mission and spirit of service to the Jewish
people."
Others rue the spread of Lubavitch influence.
"The Jewish
community is becoming deeply dependent on them for religious services and
ceremonies, education and social services," said David Berger, an Orthodox rabbi
and a history professor at Brooklyn College who has written a book on Chabad.
"It's a clear and present danger to Judaism."
The prime issue for Berger
and Chabad's other critics is the belief by some Lubavitchers that Schneerson —
the movement's last leader, who died in 1994 at age 92 — is the Messiah long
foretold in Hebrew Scriptures.
Chabad's leaders officially reject that
doctrine and insist it is fading in their ranks. Still, within the movement
others fervently embrace it. And outside Chabad, some Jews fear that the
organization's growth and vibrancy are merely cover for a sect they see as
undermining traditional Jewish beliefs.
Chabad, a Hebrew acronym for
wisdom, understanding and knowledge, took root in the late 18th century in the
then-Russian city of Lubavitch. It's a form of Hasidic Judaism, which is
characterized by its embrace of uneducated Jews, mystical and often ecstatic
piety and devotion to a single leader, the rebbe.
Schneerson's
father-in-law, who preceded him as rebbe, fled the Nazis and moved Chabad
headquarters to Crown Heights, in Brooklyn, in 1940. Shortly after, Chabad began
to emphasize reaching out to nonreligious Jews — a striking difference from
other Hasidic groups, which often advise members to isolate themselves from the
temptations of the world.
The idea was to patiently and nonjudgmentally
lead Jews back to Orthodoxy one small step at a time — attending a Sabbath
service, lighting candles Friday night, listening to a lecture from a Jewish
speaker.
"When a Jew alienates himself from his people, God forbid, it is
only because he is thirsty," Schneerson once said. "His soul thirsts for meaning
in life, but the waters of Torah have eluded him. So he wanders about in foreign
domains, seeking to quench his thirst.
"Only a shepherd who hastens not
to judge the runaway kid, who is sensitive to the causes of its desertion, can
mercifully lift it into his arms and bring it back home."
The charisma of
Schneerson's leadership was such that in the final years of his four decades of
leadership, increasing numbers of Lubavitchers believed the rebbe had the
potential to be moshiach, the Messiah.
Messianism — the belief
that God will choose a person to redeem the world — has been a central element
of Jewish belief for 2,500 years. Among many liberal Jews today, the idea has
become muted or transformed into the belief that Jews collectively should work
to repair the world's ills. But among traditional believers, the imminent coming
of the Messiah remains a powerful hope.
From time to time through the
centuries, groups of Jews have fastened those hopes on an individual. Two
millenniums ago, the followers of Jesus of Nazareth founded the Christian church
based on that belief.
When Schneerson died, many expected the whispers
that he was "the one" would dissipate: Traditional Judaism holds that the
Messiah would be a living person.
Though the belief has waned since the
rebbe's death, some believers in Schneerson adopted an idea associated with
Jesus: resurrection.
On the streets around Chabad's headquarters, signs
of belief in Schneerson's resurrection are highly visible — to the chagrin of
many Lubavitch leaders.
Signs on storefronts proclaim Schneerson as
moshiach. A small blimp flying above a Sunday neighborhood parade
recently featured a picture of Schneerson with the words "Moshiach is ready, are
you?"
Lubavitchers ride New York subways with posters under their arms
proclaiming the rebbe as king. Some attribute miracles to him.
The
messianists believe Jews can prepare the way for Schneerson's return by
observing the Bible's commands and performing good deeds that will lift the
state of the world.
In the synagogue in the basement of Chabad's
headquarters, a group of students, mostly from Israel, pray for and await the
rebbe's return. Other Lubavitchers have nicknamed the students "the Taliban" for
their rigid belief. "It doesn't take an Einstein to figure out the rebbe is the
Messiah," said a 22-year-old student who asked not to be named. He said the
belief is held by nearly all in the movement, whether publicly or
privately.
Rabbi Yehuda Krinsky, a key Chabad administrator and former
Schneerson secretary, said talk of the rebbe as the Messiah is "nonsense." He
won't attend services at the basement synagogue because of the messianic
contingent, he said.
Another rabbi said he tried to take down a messianic
banner in the synagogue one morning but was hit by one of the
students.
Leaders find it difficult to explain to outsiders why, if they
reject the messianic belief, they have not taken aggressive action to root it
out.
Some say they don't want to trigger a bitter civil war. Others say
they want to follow the rebbe's teachings and not stand in judgment of another
Jew.
Many Chabad leaders who worked with Schneerson acknowledge that they
once believed he had the potential to be a Messiah, but that hope ended with his
death.
The leaders said they did not name a new rebbe because no
candidate appeared to match Schneerson's magnetism and depth. The movement is
now headed by a council.
Critics see another possibility: A new rebbe
would undermine the messianic attachment to Schneerson.
"This is the
dominant aspiration," said Jacob Neusner, a professor and senior fellow at Bard
College's Institute of Advanced Theology in New York.
Some critics say
the movement's success has caused thousands of Jews who support Chabad or attend
its programs to unwittingly donate money and energy to an effort that is akin to
a dangerous cult.
The belief in a resurrected Messiah could distort
Judaism "profoundly and perhaps permanently," said Berger, the Orthodox rabbi
and history professor.
Supporters of Chabad dismiss such talk. "In our
area, it's a nonexistent issue," said Jeffrey Lee Cohen, a 48-year-old real
estate investor who has attended the Chabad Shul Potomac in Maryland for 16
years.
Rabbi Mark Miller, who runs a Reform synagogue in Newport Beach,
has enrolled two of his children in a Chabad day school. He said guilt animates
Chabad's critics. They "see Chabad and Orthodoxy in general as fidelity to ways
of the past that many people had broken with. And that weighs upon
them."
Those who support Chabad without joining the organization praise
its success in touching people's lives.
George Rohr, a New York
investment manager, gives an estimated $12 million a year to Chabad projects
around the world.
"Where were we going to get the biggest bang for the
buck?" Rohr asked. "The track record of Chabad in terms of bringing the light of
Judaism and the warmth of Torah around the world is unparalleled."
In
keeping with Schneerson's ideas, Jews exploring their faith in Chabad centers
don't have to accept all — or any — of the group's Orthodox practices. They need
not join a synagogue or pay dues.
"I was adamantly against going" to
Chabad, said Melissa Breiter, a 39-year-old mother of three who attends
Congregation Beth Meir HaCohen-Chabad Center of Yorba Linda.
Her parents
were Reform Jews whom she describes as anti-Orthodox. But Chabad, she said, is
"Judaism at its heart — what it should be."
In Aspen, Colo., Rabbi Mendel
Mintz, a Chabad emissary, said his center attracts 30 to 50 worshippers in peak
seasons.
But Chabad recently bought an entire block on the town's Main
Street for $6.3 million with contributions from Jews — mostly neither Orthodox
nor Lubavitchers — who live full time or part time in Aspen.
The idea is
to create a 16,000-square-foot center for the town's Jews to attend services,
enroll their children in the preschool or take Mommy and Me classes.
"I
feel very honored and blessed that I'm part of the rebbe's army to reach out to
every Jew no matter their level of observance," said Mintz, who began Chabad in
Aspen five years ago. "It's been really miraculous."
