Truth, Lubavitch, and the American Way
New Jersey Jewish News carries national and international news in a section we call World Watch. More than once I’ve joked that we should change the name to “Where Is Chabad This Time?”
As a two part series from the Jewish Telegraphic Agency has made clear, the reach and influence of the once obscure,
Brooklyn-based Chabad-Lubavitch hasidic movement is enormous and growing. Beyond the ubiquitous Chabad Houses that pop up in tourist destinations familiar and obscure, Lubavitch rabbis have become major players in Europe. Their jockeying for influence and “chief rabbi” titles has become a sign both of the resurgence of Jewish life in Europe and the former Soviet Union, and a point of friction with “establishment” groups who see Chabad as usurping their responsibilities and privileges. That’s no small matter in Europe, where recognition as the official representative of an ethnic group means money and prestige.
The spread of Chabad in this country is similarly controversial — for completely different reasons. America does not recognize chief rabbis or “official” Jewish communities. Instead, religion, like everything else, is based on the consumer model. Power and influence accrue to the group that is best at marketing its product. And in this Chabad is unrivaled. Chabad institutions, such as the Rabbinical College of America in Morristown, dispatch an army of young couples to open synagogues and outreach centers around the country. They are invariably sunny, tireless, and deeply committed to the idea of Judaism as a path to happiness and wholeness.
Staying with the consumer analogy, the Chabad shuls are franchises, responsible for their own fundraising and upkeep, and yet required to maintain the Lubavitch brand. And like any good franchise, the goal is to create a market for its goods and services, but avoid those areas where the market is already saturated. More and more, the new Chabad Houses are in the suburbs and exurbs on the frontiers of Jewish settlement, or at colleges with relatively small Jewish populations.
There Chabad has been adept at attracting non-Orthodox — indeed, non-practicing — Jews to its shuls, day camps, nursery schools, and bar mitzvah classes. Its secret? Critics say that Chabad charges little or nothing for its services, undercutting the established synagogues. Supporters, meanwhile, suggest Chabad rabbis offer something less tangible but just as valuable: authenticity, or at least the appearance thereof. With their black suits, full beards, and haimishe ways, Lubavitch rabbis satisfy a certain nostalgic yearning among spiritual seekers. And if you doubt that American Jews have such yearnings, check out the number of non-Orthodox Jewish homes that have somewhere on their walls a picture of dancing hasids. Now ask how many hasidic homes have similar pictures of dancing Reform rabbis.
Needless to say, Chabad drives a lot of non-Chabad leaders nuts. Many fellow Orthodox disdain the so-called “messianic” wing of Chabad, whose members have not given up on the idea that their late rebbe, Menachem Mendel Schneerson, is (that’s is) the Messiah. Non-Orthodox rabbis, meanwhile, consider Lubavitch a sort of cult whose rabbis, as one religion writer put it, “prey on less-observant Jewish youth hungry for an identity.” Non-Chabad rabbis also complain that while Chabad is welcoming and “catholic” in its outreach to individual Jews, they conduct their intra-faith affairs with other Jewish institutions on their terms only. So while Chabad may welcome all Jews, it accepts only one brand (theirs) of Judaism.
Mostly, however, non-Orthodox leaders complain that Lubavitch competes directly for Jews who might otherwise consider joining a Reform or Conservative synagogue. (I’ve even heard that if you go by the congregants, and not the rabbis, Chabad is the fastest growing non-Orthodox movement in the country.)
Mere envy? Perhaps. But the Chabad controversy represents a basic disagreement over the nature of organized Jewish life in America. In most of Europe (and Israel, for that matter), the dominant model for Jewish community is top down: an officially recognized, usually Orthodox rabbinate in firm control of synagogue life, religious education, and lifecycle events. Jewish practitioners may not themselves be Orthodox, but the synagogues they do not attend usually are.
In America, Judaism is a grassroots affair, each synagogue a community unto itself. A successful community is one in which clergy and congregants share a common vision of their rules and goals. Rabbis and congregants may disagree about their respective power, but in general they strive to close the gap between the rabbi’s ideals and the congregants’ (which explains the perennial tensions within the Conservative movement, which among the denominations probably has the largest gap between the movement’s expectations and the congregants’ actual behavior).
Suburban Chabad Houses are closer to the European model: Orthodox rabbis serving congregants who may but probably don’t live an Orthodox lifestyle. That disconnect, I suspect, is what really bothers non-Chabad rabbis. Yes, they think those non-Orthodox Chabadniks belong in non-Chabad synagogues. But they also think Jewish authenticity is not defined by black suits and dark beards, but by a congruity among what people believe, how they act, and the expectations of the communities they join. To them, Chabad’s brand of suburban diversity feels paternalistic, misleading, and expedient.
Maybe that is the envy talking. But in this case, envy can be a good thing, if it motivates the other movements, in defense of their model of Jewish authenticity, to do the kinds of things Lubavitch has done in spreading the idea that Judaism is joyous, hands on, accessible, and welcoming.