THE REBBE

In the large, burgeoning, diverse Jewish community that has grown and continues to develop in L.A., there's nothing like the Chabad House. Base in Westwood, with outposts around the city, it's the center for L.A.'s Lubavitcher Chasidim, devout Jews whose mission includes, among other things, making other Jews more devout.

In Many ways, they are a group displaced in time, and their intersection with modernity creates many peculiar sights: earnest teens standing midway down Fairfax, begging Jewish passers-by to put on tefillin and say a blessing; the kitschy spectacle of an annual star-studded telethon to raise money for such good works as anti-drug programs; the chaotic free-for-all atmosphere that pervades the building, open to all comers, during religious holidays; and the clean-living, ecstatic but hardly ascetic Chasidim who, under the guidance of the Brooklyn-based Lubavitcher Rebbe, drive cars with bumper stickers that request - nay, demand - that the messiah show his face, and that he do it now.

In this company of characters, Shlomo Schwartz is a character. He'll spin a story or take a drink with the best of them (and the best of them are Chasidim), and he can take his rap to a group of students or Hollywood agents or not-so-young professionals with equivalent aplomb. Why not? Schwartz - "Schwartzie" to his friends - has been as much a part of the social upheavals of the last couple decades as any body: When he tells you society has changed a lot since the '60s, he's not talking about the 1760s, though much of his lifestyle was developed in Eastern Europe more than two centuries before his birth. Schwartz's frame of reference is the late, lamented generation when the bumper stickers said "Make love, not war," the period when he began proselytizing Jewish students amid the heart of the campus rebellions. When, he asserts, people cared about others besides themselves.

The influence isn't as contradictory as it might seem: a couple of hundred years ago, Chasidim were considered the hippie freaks of the Jewish community. Spirited, mystical, they danced when they prayed and told endless tales of the miraculous events that came about through goodness and humility. Ironically, their strict adherence to rabbinic law now makes them virtual fundamentalists compared to the modernized or lax observance of most American Jews. While many Chasidic sects are exclusionary, Chabad not only welcomes outsiders but considers it vitally important to nudge Jews toward their religious heritage. Schwartz makes no bones about his desire to get "any Jew that moves" to practice Jewish law, while exhibiting a strong understanding of the perceived lack of spiritual content that causes mysticism or no religion at all. But there's no wisdom to be found in other religions that you can't get from the real Judaism, he says. Not entirely uncorrectly, he refers to his spiritual leader as his "guru."

In his early 20s, Schwartz found himself manning booths in the free-speech areas of UCLA and Berkeley, espousing religion in the midst of ferment. Since then, as society has grown more conservative, he says, people have become more self-involved. To decrying the loss of a more sympathetic society. "Period one is the '60s, period two is "I don't care about you, I don't care about issues, I'm number one' - the 'me' generation. Today there's a quiet sort of complacency. "I used to be disgusted, now I'm just amused,' that type of alienation."

On the other hand, along with the trend to conservatism has come at least one benefit: a return to family and what have become known as "traditional values."

"Today, men are more willing to marry, and women are," he says. Schwartz's work is a prime example of how he's been affected by this changing emphasis in late '80s Jewish L. A.: instead of doing student outreach for Chabad, he now acts as a sort of modern yenta, throwing singles parties for 25 - to 45-year-olds. To Schwartz, whose own marriage has produced 11 children, the phrase "be fruitful and multiply" is not an invitation but a command; his parties work both to create new families and to stem the Jewish community's high intermarriage rate. They also work as an educational tool, he says slyly: "At a party you get 400 people, while at a class you get 30 people." After getting interested singles together, he says, "I smuggle in meaning between the lines."

The other side of the coin, however, is a growing need for couples counseling. Schwartz blames the ever-growing divorce rate on the selfishness inherent in modern attitudes. "Family life is not so fulfilling; by 28, 29 years old they're divorced once, by 30 to 34 they're divorced twice. Middle class values are not making for a stable family."

Schwartz demonstrates a special fervor when talking about divorce, one that comes of basic human compassion: "Everybody says, 'Before, people were embarrassed to get divorced, and they lived in misery. Today, the salvation is everybody's getting divorced.' I feel divorce is a tragedy. Two people who dated, got engaged, maybe moved in together, they loved each other, had a honeymoon, and for the first six months a year things were great. And they loved that tremendous feeling when they surrendered to each other. Then they get divorced.

"It kills them. And I feel for these people."

Yet a life steeped in moral and family values is not in itself enough; Schwartz insists that Jews crave a spirituality that's often elusive in modern times. Another upside to the return to tradition, he feels, is that religion is no longer a dirty word.

"Once upon a time, 'I believe in God' was embarrassing; you were very self-conscious about making that statement. It's different today. In the '60s, atheists were more devour; today, though, part of being middle-class is going to a temple, or believing in God. It's not that it 'changes my life,' but it's part of it. People are comforted by it, they can get off on it.

"Along with conservatism, [there's an ethos that] you have to be well-rounded. Along with being well-rounded comes religion. It doesn't even matter if they get in to it because of Shirley MacLaine. I can get in the back with that."

It's well known among young L.A. Jews that if they want a quick fix of Jewish ritual and mysticism, or just a place to go for the holidays, the Chabad house is undaunting, if a little strange. After all, these are the people who brought Bob Dylan back to the fold. And Schwartz, now with his own "franchises," pushed spirituality everywhere, to everyone. "The way I see it, the soul is the energy that animates, makes someone alive. And in every Jewish soul, there's a spark of God energy. It's covered over, but it's there. So if you can touch it, push on of its buttons, it responds. Today there's a log of mud - middle-class mud on top of it."

Like many followers of traditional Jewish law (and despite the fact that he's Conservative movement), Schwartz contends that occasional synagogue-going simply doesn't provide people with the spirituality they seek. "People very briefly want to have a relationship with God, a religious experience, so everybody goes in to synagogue every year on Yom Kippur, and they say, 'Okay, I'm going to give it another chance, turn me on, I'm here.' What happens? Nothing. You walk out after a couple of hours bored. That's all. Because if there's no inspiration, prayer is a waste, it's a failure; if nobody's moved or inspired, then it's nothing."

As a result, they must obtain it from other, sometimes unexpected sources. "The big thing among Hollywood types and some others is whether they're using or no using, so they go to A.A. or C.A. or any 12-step program. And 12-step programs talk about a 'Higher Power.' They never heard of 'Higher Power' they went to temple, were bar-mitzahed, bat mitzvahed, confirmed; no one ever talked about a higher power. Talked about Israel, the holidays, ethics, anything a good Christian in a church would teach you, same thing. 'Be good, don't steal, be kind to the poor; that's not Judaism, that's being a mensch. but if you touch off that spark, people can change their lives, their priorities."

Schwartz leads classes in kabalah, a system of Jewish mysticism that emphasizes the intention behind a prayer as well as the prayer itself. "I call the kabalah 'rational' mystical in that it deals with spirituality, it deals with God, it deals with transcendental energies, things that aren't readily observable or apparent. But once you talk about them they are. You start to explain it in terms of intellect and emotion, and people get it. You can't do a prayer because you're supposed to do it. But mysticism injects the soul into Judaism."

No matter which way society goes in the '90s, it's a sure bet that Schwartz won't change with it. "At a lecture, a woman once asked me, 'How can you maintain your lifestyle in the 20th century?' I'm observant, I'm practicing... And I smiled and said in all honesty, 'After seeing how screwed up everyone else is out there, my problems pale.'"

His dream for the future? "I always saw two stages, in a sense: the '60s and a move back to the '50s in the '80s. I hope against hope that we can go back to the '60s 'cause I'm really a '60s person. And straight people turn me off, what can I tell you?"