The Anxiety Of Evolutionary Judaism
By Yochanan Gordon
The yahrzeit of the Baal Shem Tov, founder of the Chassidic movement, falls on the first day of Shavuos—the festival of the giving of the Torah. This convergence is profoundly significant because the Baal Shem Tov did not merely seek to inspire Jews emotionally or invigorate Jewish practice socially. At its core, his revolution was ontological. He sought to reveal the underlying sameness of reality before creation and after creation.
As Chazal phrase it:
“Attah Hu ad shelo nivra ha’olam, Attah Hu m’shenivra ha’olam.”
And as the prophet declares in the name of G-d:
“Ani Havaya lo shanisi”—I, G-d, have not changed.
The only reason Chazal would need to emphasize that G-d has not changed since creation is because perceptively everything appears to have changed. Before creation there was only infinite Divinity. After creation there appears to be fragmentation, concealment, multiplicity, confusion, exile, and distance. Yet Chassidusinsists that the essence remains precisely the same. Creation altered the appearance of reality, not its essence.
The Baal Shem Tov sought to teach the same regarding the Jew.
Today, when one conjures the image of a chossid, the mind immediately jumps to externals: beard and peyos, long coats, Yiddish, mannerisms, communal affiliations, and cultural aesthetics. All of these things possess significance. Judaism values form deeply. But form is meant to express essence—not replace it.
As the saying in Chabad goes: “Chabad mont penimiyus.” Chabad demands internality.
This week I met a follower of Rabbi Shaul Alter in my office. Rabbi Alter, the rosh yeshiva of Yeshivas Sfas Emes, is the first cousin of the present Gerrer Rebbe. Without becoming embroiled in the politics of the matter, this young Chassidic-looking man described certain methods of social control that Ger at times employs in order to keep its adherents reined in.
Interestingly, much of Rabbi Shaul Alter’s appeal appears rooted precisely in his disarming simplicity and honesty. His approach feels less curated, less institutional, more human.
The encounter forced me to wonder how descendants of the Baal Shem Tov—whose teachings liberated the Jew from spiritual and cultural imprisonment—could evolve into communities that sometimes rely heavily upon conformity and control.
This is not criticism. Every civilization creates boundaries in order to preserve itself. Institutions naturally fear dissolution. Without structure, communities disappear. The question is not sociological as much as theological.
It seems to me that anxiety enters the system the moment a movement begins to subconsciously believe that external divergence alters inner essence. Once a Jew no longer dresses the part, speaks the part, or conforms perfectly to communal expectations, he is no longer viewed merely as struggling within the system but as somehow outside of it altogether.
But how does that align with “Attah Hu ad shelo nivra ha’olam”?
If G-d remains the same before creation and after creation despite all external concealment, then perhaps the same is true regarding the Jew. External change may obscure essence without ever truly altering it.
This tension itself is deeply rooted within the history of Chassidus. Rebbe Menachem Mendel Morgenstern, whose legacy profoundly shaped Ger Chassidus, built his entire philosophy around ruthless honesty. The Kotzker Rebbe could tolerate failure; what he could not tolerate was falseness. He recoiled from religious performance when detached from authenticity. Better an honest struggle than a manufactured image of perfection.
Yet today, in many circles, there is almost no room left for such honesty. The cost of visible imperfection can be catastrophic socially: difficulty with shidduchim, schools, institutions, and belonging itself. Communities become so invested in preserving the image of continuity that they leave little space for the very human complexity Chassidus originally sought to redeem.
I heard a story this week about a prominent Lubavitcher chossid named Yisrael who, in his younger years during the 1940s—before the Rebbe’s ascension—trimmed his beard. Later, he met the Lubavitcher Rebbe, Menachem Mendel Schneerson, who lovingly patted him on the cheek and quipped:
“Yisrael, af al pi shechata, Yisrael hu.”
The story touched me deeply.
If such a thing occurred today, poor Yisrael might struggle to receive a shidduch. His children might have difficulty entering certain mosdos. He may find himself quietly pushed toward the broader community—not because he abandoned his identity, but because others decided he no longer embodied it correctly.
But the Rebbe reassured the young man that he remained the same Yisrael with or without the beard.
Ironically, the story concludes that Yisrael never touched his beard again.
Because genuine transformation rarely emerges from fear of expulsion. It emerges from being reminded that one’s essence was never truly severed to begin with.
Perhaps this is the deepest meaning of “Ani Havaya lo shanisi.” The Divine image within a Jew does not fluctuate alongside the externals of exile. Chassidusoch was never meant to produce perfectly curated Jews. It sought to reveal the point within the Jew that remains unchanged beneath all curation.
Yochanan Gordon can be reached at [email protected]. Read more of Yochanan’s articles at 5TJT.com.
