This week, I joined thousands of Ashdod’s faithful, donning my Shabbat finest, and made my way to the ‘Opera House’ event hall. The occasion? The wedding of the son of the Pittsburgher Rebbe, the revered Admor whose presence commands devotion and whose humility lifts spirits. Standing at the hall’s edge, I felt an indescribable elation—an elevation of the soul—as I basked in the joy of the celebration. Blessed by the Rebbe himself on this radiant day, I left with a heart full, marveling at a leader who redefines what it means to connect with his flock.
On the drive back, weaving from Ashdod to Jerusalem and Bnei Brak after a detour from Beit Shemesh, a friend riding shotgun asked why I’d gone to such lengths—dressing up, crisscrossing cities—for this simcha. My answer was simple yet profound: “I love attending the Pittsburgher Rebbe’s celebrations. And you know why? Because he knows I’m there.” It’s a truth distilled to its essence, but one that demands a deeper look.
A Rebbe Who Sees You
Unlike the labyrinthine rituals of other holy courts, where attending a simcha can feel like storming a fortress, the Pittsburgher Rebbe offers an antidote to the chaos. In most chassidic gatherings, the journey is fraught with obstacles: Shabbos attire donned with hope at home, only to be tested by the hunt for parking near a crowded hall or Beis Midrash. Once inside, barriers multiply—burly guards at the first checkpoint barely glance your way, followed by more layers of gatekeepers wielding walkie-talkies, each dismissing you as if you’re invisible. By the time you reach the stage, if you’re lucky, you’re met with stern faces and a swift ejection—mazal tov unspoken, dignity bruised—all under the guise of “safety concerns.”
Even hitching a ride with another Admor’s entourage offers no guarantee. You might slip past security clinging to a Rebbe’s coattails, only to be thwarted by rules barring extra gabbaim, leaving you stranded once more. And if, by some miracle, you approach the Admor mid-meal, a hierarchy of assistants—gabbai to gabbai to yeshiva boys hired for the night—whispers a chain of delays: “He’s eating meat now; come back later.” Four hours of travel, and you’re relegated to the sidelines, a bystander to your own devotion.
The Pittsburgher Rebbe upends this script. Arriving at his son’s wedding, I ascended the stage unhindered—no guards, no chassidim blocking my path. To my astonishment, the Rebbe wasn’t there, presiding over the center as expected. Instead, I found him dancing joyfully on the sidelines with his brothers-in-law—none of them Admors—and a handful of guests. The man who funded the celebration, whose chassidim filled the hall, greeted me with a warmth that felt personal, as if my presence mattered. He showered me with blessings, his delight infectious, while I stood awestruck, wishing him mazal tov from the depths of my soul. Later, he sat on a simple chair, leaving his ornate throne for visiting Admors to enjoy—a gesture of humility that spoke louder than words.
