When Chabad Meets Ruzhin, the Mind Meets Majesty — and the Soul Remembers Its Royal Origin
Two Hasidic paths. One heart. One light.
By Rabbi Mikhail Salita
Sometimes one ordinary evening becomes the moment that quietly changes everything. After a long day of work, I went with my rabbi, Rabbi Zalman Liberov, to a small Hasidic synagogue in Brooklyn. Rabbi Liberov is the grandson of Rabbi Mendel Futerfas, the legendary Chabad Hasid who kept faith alive in the darkness of the Soviet camps. That evening, the prayers were calm and sincere. There was a stillness in the air, the kind of peace that belongs only to people who truly live what they believe.
After the service, a man approached us—the son of their Rebbe. His presence carried both humility and dignity, the kind that feels inherited rather than learned. When he left, I asked Rabbi Liberov who they were. He smiled and said, “A small Hasidic denomination, but they have a Rebbe.” There was warmth in his voice, as if he respected them deeply. At that moment, I thought it was a simple comment. But it stayed with me, as if something inside had been gently awakened.
The next day, while thinking about that encounter, I began looking deeper into my own roots. My family comes from Kamianets-Podilskyi in Ukraine, a city that was once a vibrant center of Jewish life in Podolia. My great-grandfather, Srul (Shulim-Srul) Aronovich Lekhtman, was born there in 1882. He was a well-known figure—educated, responsible, and respected. He owned a brick factory in the Kytai-Gorod district, right in the heart of the city, and managed the estate of Pan Dembitsky, a local landowner. He also served as a city deputy and ran several bakeries. Ukrainian historical sources still mention him in connection with the economic history of the 1920s. He was not only a businessman, but also a man who built things that lasted—both literally and morally.
That same area, Kytai-Gorod, was the spiritual center of one of the great Hasidic dynasties—the Ruzhin–Sadigura line. There were no Chabad or Breslov communities there at that time. The Jews of Kamianets were followers of the Ruzhiner Rebbe, Rabbi Yisroel of Ruzhin, whose influence filled Podolia with a sense of beauty, dignity, and divine presence. When I realized that, everything began to make sense. My great-grandfather’s sense of refinement, his respect for responsibility, his love of building and community—all of that carried the unmistakable mark of Ruzhin Hasidism. I understood that my ancestors were almost certainly among those who served God with both strength and grace, in the spirit of Rabbi Yisroel of Ruzhin—the “King without a Crown.”
The Ruzhiner Rebbe was unlike any other Hasidic leader of his time. He lived with a sense of majesty, surrounded by gold and music, yet everything he did was for the honor of Heaven. When asked why a tzaddik should live with such splendor, he answered, “If we are children of the King of Kings, should we not reflect His majesty in how we serve Him?” Another time, he said, “Some serve God in poverty; I serve Him in wealth—not for myself, but for His glory.” The message was clear: holiness could express itself not only in simplicity but also in beauty, not in pride but in dignity. It was a revolutionary idea—that grandeur and humility could coexist, that to live beautifully could itself be a mitzvah when done with gratitude and awe.
That night in Brooklyn, standing beside Rabbi Liberov, I suddenly saw the connection between two great Hasidic worlds—Chabad and Ruzhin. Chabad teaches that the mind must guide the heart; Ruzhin teaches that the heart can elevate the mind through beauty. One sanctifies the intellect; the other sanctifies experience. Chabad is the wisdom of divine understanding, while Ruzhin is the majesty of divine feeling. Together, they form a perfect balance—sechel and tiferet, mind and majesty. It struck me that these two paths were not meant to compete but to complete each other, like two wings of the same soul.
My rabbi’s lineage from Rabbi Mendel Futerfas brought with it the courage and clarity of Chabad. My own lineage from Podolia carried the grace and nobility of Ruzhin. The bridge between these two worlds—the intellectual and the regal—is the space where I feel my own calling as a rabbi and a teacher. In that harmony between thought and feeling, between humility and beauty, the Jewish soul finds its fullest expression.
Today, my work in restitution and moral restoration continues that same tradition in a different language. My great-grandfather built with bricks; I build with words. He constructed walls that stood against time; I try to restore memory and dignity that history attempted to erase. To rebuild what was taken is not merely justice—it is tikkun olam, the repair of the world. What was destroyed can be rebuilt. What was silenced can be sung again.
From Kamianets to Odesa, from Odesa to Brooklyn, the light of Ruzhin still burns. And within the teachings of Chabad, I recognize the same eternal fire—reason crowned with faith, understanding crowned with compassion. The bridge between Chabad and Ruzhin is not only historical; it is spiritual. It lives within each of us who seeks both clarity and beauty, wisdom and wonder. When Chabad meets Ruzhin, the mind meets majesty—and the soul remembers its royal origin.
