Reb Zalman The Davener

by Moishe Scheiner

Picture Boulder at 9:00 AM: a man with a big bushy beard, eyes overflowing with grace and kindness, wishing “Good Shabbos” to everyone who passed by. This was Reb Zalman. Known affectionately as the chocolate man, he would always say, “If you want chocolate, you need to put on shoes.”

He was kind. The first time I davened for the ammud, he told me I had a beautiful voice. That single compliment changed my life, sparking a love for music. Like my teacher’s rare praise for a clever question, it was a high I chased, though mediocrity often followed.

Reb Zalman was the only person who asked about my plans post-yeshiva—a thought I’d never entertained, as becoming rabbis was our presumed fate. I suspect he knew I wouldn’t follow that path.

I once turned away from the mystical, harboring a disdain for yeshiva and its rabbinic views. It seemed easier to be cynical—a coward’s route, some might say. But there was an undeniable magic at yeshiva, a fervent quest for God through books, mitzvot, and prayer. There was an electric energy among those who spoke in folktales and poems, appearing as if they were from another world. Deep down, I longed for that magic, that encounter with the divine. A true chassid radiates a love and joy that seems almost otherworldly.

At sixteen, after returning from yeshiva, Reb Zalman invited me to his house. It felt like a duel because I represented the system he had left. In the yeshiva world, Reb Zalman was a legend—a prodigy, a genius, closely connected with the Rebbe. His departure from the Chabad movement was like losing a brother, a deep betrayal.

His version of Hasidism included colorful displays and a feel-good blend of spirituality from many sources, which felt like a personal betrayal to our insular world. His deepest betrayal was veering from Halacha—allowing electricity on Shabbat, mixed seating, and other deviations.

This was during Chanukah, and Reb Zalman explained his world view in his classic mystical style. He showed me his two menorahs—one for the halachic interpretation of Hillel, the other for Shammai. “People mistake me,” he said. “They think I don’t like Halacha. I love Halacha so much that I honor both opinions.”

Reb Zalman’s journey into renewal was not a rejection of Halacha but an embrace of all truths and the beauty of spirituality. He did not let his soul-searching and doubts make him cynical. He was on a quest for God and wanted to share that love with everyone.

There were many halachic rules about prayer that bothered him when I broke them. Reb Zalman would always remind me to wear shoes in the synagogue, to say a blessing before eating chocolate. Once, I missed hearing the shofar at the end of Rosh Hashanah, and he gently reprimanded me. This was not a man indifferent to Halacha.

He was enthralled by God, making his own interpretations of religious politics while maintaining deep respect for rabbinic tradition. Despite my agnostic cynicism towards spirituality, I remember him fondly.

On his tombstone, it reads that he was a man who loved all and brought them closer to God. When I think of Zalman, I remember him as a niggun, a prayer, a davener.