Everyone Counts

A family from Pittsburgh wondered if they belong in Chabad.

Rabbi Pini Herman grew up in a typical American family. His father was a lawyer, his mother a teacher, and the household included a son, a daughter, and a dog. They belonged to a Conservative synagogue in Pittsburgh, where his father sang in the choir.

His mother wasn’t happy with the public school system and began looking into other options. She checked out the local Chabad school, was impressed by what she saw, and eventually enrolled both her son and daughter there.

Little by little, they started learning more and gradually took on more Jewish observance. The families sending their children to the Chabad school came from a range of backgrounds. Some were Chabad chassidim, but most were part of other Jewish streams.

Back then, in the early 1970s, there weren’t many families in Pittsburgh who were just starting to explore religious observance. While the community was friendly, many people weren’t quite sure how to categorize them.

One day, a woman from the community who wasn’t Chabad told his mother, “It’s lovely that you’re getting involved with Chabad and becoming more observant—really, that’s wonderful—but just know: you’ll never truly be one of them.”

She didn’t mean any harm—she genuinely thought it would be healthier for them not to get their hopes up about fully fitting into the Chassidic community. Still, his mother wasn’t sure how to take those words. Did that reflect how the Chabad community really saw them? So she wrote to the Rebbe, introducing herself and asking for guidance. The Rebbe didn’t respond.

That summer, the family vacationed on the Jersey Shore. By that time, they were already keeping Shabbat, so they decided to spend that particular Shabbat in Crown Heights—near the Rebbe. That Thursday night was a farbrengen, which meant there would be no private audiences with the Rebbe. But about an hour before Shabbat, their family was granted a yechidus—a personal meeting with the Rebbe.

The Rebbe spoke with the parents, and during the conversation, he noted that since they were still connected to the Conservative community, they had a responsibility to influence their friends and inspire them to strengthen their observance of mitzvos.

“We’re trying, Rebbe,” the mother said.

“Try harder,” the Rebbe replied with a smile.

Before they left, the Rebbe gave them a blessing.

The next day, Shabbat afternoon, there was another farbrengen with the Rebbe. The Hermans were staying with the Zarchi family that Shabbos, and after the meal, Pini’s father went to 770 with Rabbi Hershel Zarchi. Pini was only seven years old at the time and wasn’t too eager to sit through another talk in a language he didn’t understand—so instead, he went to take a nap.

Suddenly, he heard loud knocks at the door. It was Hershel Zarchi, completely out of breath, having run straight from 770. He pointed at Pini and said, “The Rebbe wants you.”

“What do you mean?” everyone asked. “What happened?”

Apparently, during the farbrengen, Pini’s father had lifted a cup to say l’chaim to the Rebbe, as was the custom. The Rebbe looked at him and motioned with his hand as if to ask, “Where is your younger son?”

Rabbi Zarchi couldn’t believe it—someone in his house was being asked for by the Rebbe! He rushed back home, told Pini to get dressed, grabbed him by the hand, and dashed back to 770. When they arrived, people literally lifted young Pini and passed him over the crowd until he reached his father’s spot.

Naturally, Pini’s mother and sister had also come and were watching the incredible scene unfold from the women’s section. When the Rebbe finished speaking, someone handed Pini a small cup so he could say l’chaim to the Rebbe. As he raised the cup, the Rebbe motioned for him to come closer.

Pushing through the crowd, Pini slowly made his way toward the Rebbe. When he reached him, the Rebbe poured a little wine from his own cup into a little cup for Pini’s, then picked up a piece of cake from the plate in front of him to give to the boy—but Pini was still a bit too far; the table was too wide for his seven year old arms. So, he climbed up onto the Rebbe’s table. The Rebbe handed him the cup and the cake, waited for him to make the blessings, and answered, “Amen!”

All the while, Pini’s mother was watching from the women’s section. Nearby, she overheard two women talking.

“Who is that boy?” one asked, puzzled as to why the Rebbe had called him over in the middle of the farbrengen.

“I don’t know,” the other replied, “but he must be from a very special family.”

When she heard that, Pini’s mother later said—it changed everything for her. She realized that the Rebbe wasn’t just saying they were welcome in Chabad; he was showing them that they truly belonged.

The fact that the Rebbe remembered a little boy he had met just the day before, and felt it was meaningful for that child to experience a farbrengen—that meant the world to them.

The Rebbe also made it clear to the rest of the family that he was happy they were there—that they were welcome and accepted as full members of his community.

The message the Rebbe gave that day was one he always stood for: Even if you’re just a seven-year-old child, you matter. You are precious in G-d’s eyes and a vital part of the Jewish people. That attitude—that warmth and recognition—was what ultimately made the whole family become the Rebbe’s Chassidim.

Twelve Paths in the Sea

Parshas Naso is the longest portion in the Torah, and the reason is because it describes the dedication of the Mishkan in the desert and the offerings brought by the leaders of each tribe. Each day, a different tribal leader brought an offering on behalf of their tribe. But when you look inside, you see that every tribe brought the exact same offering. The Torah repeats this—word for word—twelve times.

So we’re left with the obvious question: Why does the Torah repeat the exact same details twelve times? Wouldn’t it have made more sense to write the offering once, and then just say that each of the other tribal leaders brought the same thing on the following days?

Especially when we know that the Torah is usually very concise. There are many halachos that we learn from just a single extra letter in the Torah—yet here it goes on at length, repeating what seems like the same thing over and over.

The Rebbe brings this question in a sicha, quoting the Alter Rebbe. He notes that the Alter Rebbe raises this very question twice in his writings—once at the beginning of the Torah in Parshas Bereishis, and again at the end in Parshas V’Zos HaBerachah.

And the answer? Even though the offerings were identical in content and quantity, each tribal leader brought his offering with a unique inner intention—something that reflected the distinct qualities and spiritual mission of his tribe. Every tribe was different in its makeup and personality, and the Torah, being a Torah of truth, can’t say that what one leader brought was the same as what another brought. Because spiritually—it wasn’t.

Each leader’s offering wasn’t just a carbon copy of the others—it carried a unique purpose and a unique spiritual energy in Torah and mitzvos.

Yes, on the surface, they all brought the same offering. But the soul behind each one was different. One tribe was all about kindness, another about strength. To an outsider, it may have looked identical—but each leader infused his korban with a kavana unique to his tribe. The Rebbe, quoting the Alter Rebbe, gives a powerful analogy to this from the story of the splitting of the sea.

There’s a lesser-known Midrash on the verse “To Him who split the Sea of Reeds into parts” (Tehillim 136:13). Rashi comments: “Into parts—twelve paths for the twelve tribes.”

When Moshe struck the sea, it didn’t just split once—it split into twelve separate lanes. Contrary to what people often imagine, the Jews didn’t all walk together through one corridor. Each tribe had its own path through the sea.

 You might ask—if the point was to save them from the Egyptians, wouldn’t one path have done the job? Why such a miracle with twelve separate splits?

The answer is that G-d wanted to teach a lesson: we’re not all the same. Every tribe—and every individual—has their own unique journey toward Sinai.

G-d was teaching us that it’s not “one-size-fits-all.” Each person has their own strengths, their own role, and their own place in the community. And that individuality is something to value. What you can contribute—no one else can. And only when each person is seen as essential, only then can we come together as a people, reach Mount Sinai, receive the Torah, and build a Mishkan where G-d’s presence can dwell.

In other words, when does G-d reveal Himself to the Jewish people? Specifically when each individual is valued—not just as a cog in the machine called “the Jewish nation,” but as someone with their own path, their own track, their own way of connecting to G-d. And when we honor that individuality—that’s when we’re able to bring the Shechina to rest among us.