What I saw the other night is a genuine love of one’s fellow Jew. Period.
Editor and Publisher
I had dinner Sunday evening with a group of Chabad rabbis in Brooklyn.
Several thousand of them, actually. Wearing their traditional black suits, black hats and long beards they filled the cavernous Brooklyn Marine Terminal with their ebullient enthusiasm. It was said to be the largest dinner of the year in New York, and I don’t doubt it.
Two decades ago, June 12, 1994, after years of messianic crescendo, controversy and genial outreach, the Lubavitcher rebbe, Menachem Mendel Schneerson, breathed his last. Like Joe Hill or Elijah, the rebbe became one of those characters that some say never really died, either literally or figuratively. The debate within Chabad over his messianism has become somewhat muted with the years, as the passage of time does its dulling. But one thing is beyond dispute: The rebbe is having one heck of an afterlife.