LOS ANGELES, Sept. 13 (JTA) -- This time of year, Rabbi Shlomo Schwartz, wearing a ``Grateful Yid" T-shirt and baseball cap, offers an alternative to the legions of Los Angeles Jews who wonder whether they want to pay anywhere from $100 to $400 for admission to High Holidays services.

   ``Schwartzie," as everyone calls him, passes out leaflets, which announce in bold lettering, ``No Tickets, No Appeals" for services, open to ``Conservative, Reform, non-affiliates & any Jew that moves."

   This year, he expects a total of 3,000, mainly single, Jews -- most of whom may not have stepped inside a synagogue since their Bar or Bat Mitzvah.

   For their free tickets, worshipers also get a Rosh Hashanah eve ``Schmooz and Cruise Singles Party," a study session, for women only, by the rabbi's wife, Olivia, and songs by the Schwartz Family Tabernacle Choir, consisting of the couple's seven sons.

   Especially popular is a ``Stump the Rabbi" session, which in Schwartz's patented orthographic style, ``is intensely animated bcz 100's of ppl R bursting w/?s they've been wanting to ask since age 12 or 13."

   During one such session, a young man asked whether there was a special prayer before sexual intercourse, Kosher Sex  to which Schwartz answered instantly, ``Yes, you pray she doesn't have a headache."

   Though the tone may often be lighthearted, the services conform to Orthodox ritual. A mechitzah, or partition, divides men from women, and only men are called up for Torah readings.

   Schwartz, the product of a Chabad yeshiva who remains a devoted follower of the Lubavitcher rebbe's teachings, ventures where no rabbi has gone before. A one-time bongo-thumping Greenwich Village beatnik, he frequents rock concerts -- flowing beard, yarmulka, Mickey Mouse suspenders, leather thongs and all -- and will on occasion lace a wedding ceremony with lyrics from the Grateful Dead's repertoire.

   One of his oddest venues is the Venice Beach boardwalk here, where every other Sunday he sets up a folding table and affixes a prominent ``Jewish Astrology!" placard. Surrounded by books and calendars, he practices his own form of star-gazing.

   Schwartz doesn't claim to be a psychic and he doesn't predict the future. ``I try to tell people who they are, their essence, and through that identify their potential and how they can realize it.

   ``I started this astrology as a shtick, a hook, but I've been blown away by how often I hit the mark," he says.

   Schwartz's unorthodox approach and style is based on the simple premise that if Jews, especially the younger generation, won't go to synagogues or join Jewish organizations, then he has to go where they normally gather or provide a setting in which they feel comfortable.

   Where do young Jews meet? One place is the popular Comedy Store on the Sunset Strip, and every Purim Schwartz is there, doing his stand-up routine and reading from the megillah to a sellout crowd of 450 people.

   Are there any married women who enjoy being rejuvenated at a spa? Olivia Schwartz organizes a ``spiritual spa retreat" for them, near Palm Springs, Calif.

   Do young Jewish men and women need a nice place to meet, imbibing some Judaism while enjoying themselves? Schwartz will set up a moonlight cruise or rock concert.

   The 52-year old Schwartz was born in Atlantic City, N.J., the son of a cantor who had fled Vienna in 1939. The father disliked all Chasidic movements with a passion, and when his only son decided to become a Lubavitcher disciple, the father turned his back on Shlomo, predicting ``you'll be a bum."

   After rabbinical studies, including two years at Kfar Chabad in Israel in the late 1960s, Schwartz found his natural calling at the University of California at Los Angeles Chabad House, the first of its kind on any American campus.

   He quickly became a highly visible campus figure, setting up his stand next to the followers of the Rev. Sun Myung Moon and Jews for Jesus.

   Soon he was dragging startled students into his mobile Sukkah on wheels to wave the lulav, engaging a seven-piece rock band for a Purim party and button holing anyone he suspected of being a Jew.

   He left his campus post after 13 years, when his unconventional methods got to be a bit much for his superiors. ``I am still a Lubavitcher in my heart," he reflects, `` but by no longer being an official Chabad representative, I figured I could do even more outrageous things."

   Left with no job, but with a wife and 10 children -- the number has now swelled to 12 -- Shlomo and Olivia Schwartz founded the CHAI Center nine years ago. The name stands for ``Life" in Hebrew, but doubles as an acronym for ``Center for Happiness & Awesome Insights."

   Sometimes criticized for his unconventional methods, Shlomo Schwartz observes, ``I've been called a Reform Chasid and God's court jester, but whatever the label, I do believe that to bring Jews back into the fold one must serve God with joy.''

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   Around this time of the year, Rabbi Shlomo Schwartz, wearing his "Grateful Yid" T-shirt and baseball cap, offers an alternative to the legions of Los Angeles Jews, who wonder whether to spring anywhere from $100 to $400 for a High Holy Days synagogue admission.

   Schwartzie, as he is universally addressed, passes out leaflets, which announce in bold lettering, "No Tickets, No Appeals" for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur services, open to "Conservative, Reform, non-affiliates and any Jew that moves."

   Schwartzie, as he is universally addressed, passes out leaflets, which announce in bold lettering, "No Tickets, No Appeals" for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur services, open to "Conservative, Reform, non-affiliates and any Jew that moves."

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   Outreach: When not at his boardwalk astrology booth, Shlomo 'Schwartzie' Schwartz gives huge Seders organizes singles mixers and makes office 'calls.'

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   Most Sundays, you can find Rabbi Shlomo Schwartz among the Tarot card readers, fortunetellers and incense sellers on the Venice Beach boardwalk with a booth of his own "Jewish Astrology."
   If you miss the sign, he's unmistakable. A jovial 51-year old man with a long beard who answers to the nickname "Schwartzie" and who sports a tie-dyed T-shirt and a baseball cap bearing the words "Grateful Yid."
   During his two hours on the boardwalk, curious strollers-a Jewish couple from Brooklyn, a trio of young Israelis with whom Schwartz chats in Hebrew stop by for free readings.
   Jewish astrology, he says, is based on Jewish mysticism, or Kabbalah, that uses numerology, Torah passages and people's Hebrew names to determine their nature and destiny.
   The booth is one of the rabbi's techniques to acquaint unaffiliated and disenfranchised Jews with their heritage and connect Jewish singles. His main focus is the Chai Center (Chai is Hebrew for "life") a nonprofit organization he runs with his wife, Olivia, and their 12 children from their Mar Vista home.
   The center organizes huge Passover Seders, Shabbat dinners, singles mixers, study sessions and free High Holy Day services (his ads read. "Don't pay to pray"). In addition, it does outreach at abused children's shelters, prisons and hospitals, plus preside over brisses, weddings and funerals, or in Schwartzie speak: "Hatch 'em, match 'em, and dispatch 'em." He operates on a $180,000 annual budget from a fund-raising banquet, private donations, private Jewish astrology readings and sales of baseball caps with Chai in Hebrew letters and tie-dyed yarmulkes (skull caps worn by Jewish men).
   "I always say, 'Business is booming;" Schwartz says. "of course, it has nothing to do with money."
   With Jews assimilating through intermarriage and turning away from their faith at a reported rate of 2 million over 15 years. Schwartz measures success in terms of the number of unaffiliated Jews he reaches. He touches about 15,000 Jews a year. Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur services draw upward of 3,000 people. Passover Seders, about 700 singles parties, about 600. Then there are the Friday night Shabbat dinners for 40 he has regularly at his home.
"Schwartzie reaches people no one else can reach, because he's so open and tolerant and accepting and embracing," says Rabbi Nachum Braverman, education director of the Los Angeles branch of international Jewish outreach network. "I never met anyone who didn't like Schwartzie."
   The rabbi's impact is not just recognized in the local observant Jewish communities, but also in the entertainment industry. He said his students have included actors Richard Dreyfuss and Elliott Gould, radio personality/author Dennis Prager, talent manager Joan Hyler and record producer Richard Perry. (He was probably the only rabbi backstage at the recent Rolling Stones concert.) It's not uncommon for him to make "office calls" in Century City to lead lunchtime Torah classes for lawyers and Hollywood executives.
   "He is one of the most loving, kind and deeply spiritual people I've ever met-totally selfless. He and his wife give their lives to helping others," says longtime student Trudy Green, a talent manager who has worked with Janet Jackson and the Rolling Stones.
   "He takes traditional Judaism into the contemporary worked, which is why people in the entertainment industry relate so well to him," Green says. "He connects with people through humor and love for life. He's larger than life. If he wasn't a rabbi, he'd be a celebrity himself."
   Schwartz's life has been a series of journeys down roads less traveled. Growing up a conservative Jew, the son of a cantor, in Atlantic City, N. J., he was drawn to his religion's more mystical aspects. At 19, he became Orthodox and abandoned New York's Yeshiva University for the Rabbinical College of America in Morristown, N. J.
   "I was part of the Beat generation, hanging out in Greenwich Village, listening to Bob Dylan and Allen Ginsberg, drinking cheap wine and espresso, playing the bongos and listening to poetry," he says. "I figured I could always hang out in the Village. Studying with a rabbi seemed more difficult, so I decided to try that first. I wanted to leave in the beginning a few times, but I ultimately saw a future there."
   Still, Schwartz's radical streak remained. At 23, married and with a child, he decided his calling was outreach, and the place in most need was Los Angeles.
   "Here, Jews don't even have a clue," he says. "Out of 600,000 Jews, 70% are nonaffiliated. For outreach, you can't lose. I also felt that Jewish establishments didn't have an approach to non-affiliates. And because they've had no experience with religion, they're often the people who are most open."
   Schwartz spent 13 years honing his user-friendly approach to Judaism as the director of campus activities at UCLA's Chabbad "I survived Hebrew school," ran services in English, and organized mixers such as the "Coming Out Party for Closet Jewry" and annual Purim Party at the Comedy Store.
   "Humor is the medium that dispels the misconception that Judaism is uptight and serious, retrospective and Holocaust-oriented," he says.
   Unfortunately, Chabad didn't go for his methods. "They didn't like the singles thing at a night club. I said, 'Hello! They're going to do it with or without you, so let them at least meet a Jewish person.' The people coming were non-affiliates. It's important to just get them in the door."
   Since Schwartz struck out on his own nine years ago, detractors have acknowledged his contribution. Chabad regularly hires him to speak and lead retreats around the world. And the former beatniks and hippies that Schwartz left so long ago have been wandering over to his philosophical turf in search of their won elusive happiness.
   "Baby boomers have tried a lot of different radical movements and lifestyles, which apparently did not satisfy them." he says. "So they're more open now to finding peace."
   Meanwhile, Schwartz's tactics on the Venice boardwalk clearly pique interest, as more people look, slow down and walk over.
   "They won't come over to a rabbi trying to sell them Judaism, but they will come over to a Jewish Astrology table," he says. "I get a crowd, because I'm appealing to everyone's No. 1 interest: themselves. Once they see that their Jewish soul has a reality all its own, the door is open for them to say, 'Maybe, I should think differently. Maybe I should express it.'"
 

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Cries of "thank you!" may be unusual coming from the lips of congregants as they leave synagogue. Rabbi Shlomo Schwartz of the Chai Center wouldn't know it, however. He hears them all the time.
   "This was the first time in 25 years I have been to temple. It is also the first time I have ever understood the services. Thank you!" said one participant in a Schwartz service.
   "I'll be back," said another, "bringing with me people who have never been to services!"
   The two-year-old Chai Center sponsors Jewish outreach programs directed toward non-affiliated Jews in Los Angeles.
   Rabbi Schwartz, "Schwartzie" to his friends, holds High Holy Day services, Shabbat dinners, Passover seders, Purim parties, lectures and classes.
   For almost twenty years, Schwartz worked at UCLA's Chabad House and appeared almost everyday on Bruin Walk. "At that time, there were 9,000 Jewish students on campus, 23 Jewish Student Organizations and much activism Schwartz said.
   But even with such large numbers, Schwartz was looking for the "others," or non-affiliated Jews. This quest would drive him for years to come, as he set off to break down what he sensed with a "rabbi phobia," where people feel uncomfortable approaching a rabbi as a human being.
   To challenge that image, Schwartz sported Mickey Mouse suspenders (which he still wears) and a cowboy hat. At some point during those e years he earned his nickname, Schwartzie.
   In 1983, Rabbi Schwartz left the campus and continued programs in the Chabad House, where he learned to be creative and innovative when trying to attract students to Chabad activities.
   At holidays, Schwartz said "my crowning glory was, if no one ever came to Chabad before, they came now."
   But it wasn't all a party. After perceiving a crisis in the community-the high rate of intermarriage and large numbers of unaffiliated Jews-Schwartz left Chabad House to expand upon his goal of winning back unaffiliated Jews to Judaism.
   He and his wife, Olivia, formed the Chai Center as a social and educational center. The Center "directly addresses the problems people have "with Judaism, Schwartz said, which include the lack of desire to go to Jewish functions, meet other Jews or obtain a strong Jewish identity.
   Adding to his problem is the presentation of Judaism. Schwartz believes Judaism is presented "poorly and often lacking in spirituality."
   The Chai Center confronts these things by attempting to provide spirituality and a non-threatening atmosphere in its programs.
   One very popular program has been "Dinner for Thirty Strangers," held in his home three Friday nights a month.
   For some of the people who flood his home at these events, Schwartz always hears "This is my first Shabbat dinner," from someone.
   Rabbi Schwartz also has huge numbers at his High Holiday services. "I advertise "no pay to pray' and 'all English,' for many don't understand Hebrew."
   Also, "people don't like institutionalized services," the rabbi said. "I took it out of the synagogue and into a secular hall, nice places like the Biltmore Hotel" Last year, 1,000 people came to the Biltomre to attend services.
   Schwartz's "fan mail" lauds the rabbi for his "down-to-earthedness" and the way he seems to touch people profoundly.
   His fliers state, "no prior background is required for your total enjoyment," which appears to be on of the underlying themes of the Center's programs. The events are also "for conservative, Reform, non-affiliates, and any Jew that moves!"
   Schwartz does not offer Shabbat services because, "I'm not trying to reach those who go to synagogue every week," he said.
   Purim is a particularly important holiday for Schwartz. The Chai Center, together with the Jewish Federation Council of Los Angeles, recently held a Purim Party at the Comedy Store L. A.. The party began with a Megillah Reading and continued with two show times, featuring music and comedians.
   Last year's Purim party at the Comedy Store attracted 250 people. This year, some 600 people attended.
   The Purim Party is the only Chai Center event with a fee. Charging people to come to a program prevents many from doing so, the rabbi said.
   Schwartz advertises in the L. A. Times Calendar section and the L. A. Weekly. "People who are not affiliated read the LA Times, not the Jewish Journal. You have to go where it's at," he said.
   Advertising, programs and word of mouth works for Schwartz. At every event people can join his mailing list, or they can call the Chai Center. "I average about six new people a week," Schwartz said.
   Money for advertising and expenses comes from friends who donate. Also, Schwartz holds on major fund-raiser a year-a banquet-which provides on third of his budget.
   Many look at Schwartz's work and dub it an unqualified success. Rhonda Weisman, assistant director for the Western Region of the Jewish Federation Council, speaks enthusiastically of Schwartz as a "very special soul."
   "He reaches people that would probably not be reached otherwise," she said.
   "If I can survive financially, I am ready to do this forever," Schwartz said of the Chai Center's future. "I cannot find anything more meaningful." He also believed that a Chai Center run by many people would not be the same as it is now. He and his wife currently do the vast majority of the work.
   "My hope is that people find some meaning," he said, "I cannot see myself doing anything else when there are 1,000 people not going to services. I want them to come to mine. I want to change their lives."

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written by Staff Writer Paul Feldman on Sept 28, 1990

   Shortly after arriving from the East coast seven years ago, I attended my first Jewish New Year's service, Southern California-style.
   Back in Boston and New York, I was long accustomed to rabbis sermonizing about hard work, philanthropy and guilt. But at the sun-soaked South Bay synagogue where I bought a seat for the High Holidays, the message proved far different.
   Here, the rabbi suggested that this flock enjoy the blue skies, the cool ocean breeze and the laid-back lifestyle-in essence, to have a nice life. By doing so, he said, we would emit good vibrations that might bounce off our loved ones and the less fortunate, thus enhancing their lives.
   Deciding that this rabbi's approach veered closer to selfishness than selflessness, I did not return.
   But the experience opened my eyes to the staggering diversity of Jewish religious life in the Southland. And it set in motion an unceasing but enlightening search for the perfect High Holiday service.
   Since 1983, I have wandered into temples featuring a female rabbi, a rabbi-soap opera actor and a guitar-playing rabbi (this gray-bearded Jerry Garcia look-alike strummed some mean chords on the prayer, Shmah Yisroael).
   I have attended an ultra-orthodox service at a modest temple across the street from a horse feed store in Lomita. And I have gone to a high-tech service in the plush auditorium of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. (There, game show host Monte Hall, a congregant, was called to come on down to the pulpit to open the Ark holding the Torah. We couldn't help but ponder whether he was about to choose Door No. 1, 2 or 3.)
   Each synagogue has had its positive aspects. But each had limitations. While many of the rabbis imparted uplifting messages, none of the services seemed to combine the precise blend of tradition and warmth I was hoping to find.
   This month, preoccupied by work, I did not begin thinking about the New Year until the last minute.
   Then my wife spotted an unusual poster on a Beverly Boulevard telephone pole. "No tickets, no appeals," it read. "For conservative, Reform, nonaffiliates, and any Jew that moves."
   Why not, we thought. At the very least, it had to be a kick to pray to God in the glitzy Bel Age Hotel, where Rabbi Shlomo Schwartz had rented a function room.
   We scheduled our arrival on Jewish standard time-halfway through the service-just in time for the reading of the Torah and the traditional blowing of the sho-far (ram's horn). The turnout was astonishing-at least 400 people, a standing-room only crowd.
   We were even more astonished at the approach of this unorthodox orthodox rabbi.
   Rabbi Schwartz, a former leader of the Chabad group o Hasidim, had recently broken from the fold and started his own independent religious center ("a very nonprofit organization," according to his literature). Seeking to serve Jews who would not desire to join any congregation that would have them, Schwartz, who has a flowing brown beard, leavened his service with jokes and stories.
   There was his explanation of the shofur blowing ceremony as a traditional call to prayer. "Jewish People's Exhibit A," the rabbi said, as he held the horn aloft.
   Later, Schwartz asked the crowd to join in the singing of "a prayer for an endangered species-the Jews."
   Whenever a few seats became vacant, the rabbi halted the service to implore congregants to participate in what he termed "the Jewish version of 'the Wave.' "Raise your hands, if there's a seat beside you," he said. "Let someone sit down. Don't be shy."
   As in Orthodox temples, a barrier had been set up to separate the men and women. But here, anarchy reigned. Some men stood on the women's side of the hall; one couple held hands across the barrier.
   Rabbi Schwartz hardly seemed to care. Laugh a little, pray a little. But spend the holiday together in a communal Jewish experience. The congregation responded warmly.
   When the shofar blower, a stick-like young figure introduced as Rabbi Munchkin of Brooklyn, finished his chore with a series of raspy peeps, the crowd broke into hearty applause.
   Strangers regaled each other with stories. A 60-ish man in a toupee told me how he used to frequent a Westside temple where show-biz personalities including Jackie Carter. Lainie Kazan and Barbra Streisand occasionally led prayers. Unfortunately, he said when he introduced a pair of Italian entertainers. "What I came for was a Friday night service," the man told me. "What I got was 'Volare."'
   Even the harshest critics seemed satisfied with Shlomo Schwartz. "I bet this service is just as good as what my sister's getting-and at the price she's paying..." sniffed one woman.
   By noon, the lobby of the Bel Age was so crowded that a fire Marshall was called in to assess the situation. Not to worry, Schwartz said. For Yom Kippur this weekend, the service will be moved to a larger facility: a 900-seat hall in the downtown Biltmore Hotel.

"It's worth the schlep," beamed the rabbi.

 

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   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.

   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?"

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