Here’s My Story: You’ve Been Accepted!

Rabbi Pinney Herman

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We were a typical American Jewish family. My father was an attorney, and my mother a teacher, and they had a daughter, a son, and a dog. We were members of our Conservative synagogue in Pittsburgh, where my father sang in the choir.

But my mother didn’t like our local public school system, and she wanted to see what else was out there. She went to check out the local Lubavitch day school, which impressed her, and she ended up sending my older sister and me there.

Slowly but surely, we started learning, and then adopting, more and more of traditional Judaism. The community of families who sent their children to Lubavitch was a closely connected group, but a mixed one. Some were Chabad chasidim of course, but most came from other sects of Orthodox Judaism.

Back then, in the early 70s, there were not many families like ours in Pittsburgh who were becoming more observant. While we enjoyed the camaraderie of the community, many people weren’t sure what to make of us.

“It’s nice that you’re getting involved with Lubavitch and becoming more religious,” one of the non-Lubavitch women in the community told my mother at one point. “Really, it’s wonderful. But you should also know that you’re never going to be one of them.”

This woman wasn’t trying to be mean. She thought it was for our good that we not have unrealistic expectations about our ability to integrate and become a part of this chasidic community. Nevertheless, my mother didn’t know what to make of it: Are we accepted in this community? Are we not? Are we halfway? And so she decided to write to the Rebbe, introducing herself and asking this question.

The Rebbe didn’t respond.

That summer, we were going to the beach in New Jersey for a vacation. At that point, we had already begun keeping Shabbat, so we decided to spend the weekend in Crown Heights, with the Rebbe.

There was a public farbrengen that Thursday night, which meant that the Rebbe wasn’t holding any private audiences then. Instead, the next day, just an hour or so before Shabbat, our family had an opportunity to meet with the Rebbe.

We spent only two or three minutes there in his office. The Rebbe spoke to my parents, and one of the things they discussed was – seeing as they were still involved with the Conservative synagogue – influencing and inspiring their friends to do more mitzvot.

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

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

“Try harder” had always been a motto of my mother’s, even before meeting the Rebbe, and it certainly was afterward; she began to take every opportunity to bring more Judaism into people’s lives. The Rebbe gave us a blessing, and we left to get ready for Shabbat.

The next day, on Shabbat afternoon, the Rebbe held another farbrengen. We were staying with the Zarchi family on President Street – Aliza Zarchi is originally from Pittsburgh – and so after lunch, my father went off with Rabbi Hershel Zarchi to 770. Only seven at the time, I didn’t appreciate the moment and I wasn’t terribly interested in going to a farbrengen to hear a rabbi speaking in a language that I didn’t understand. Instead, I went to take a nap.

Just as I was settling down, I heard banging on the door. It was Hershel Zarchi, out of breath, having run straight from 770. He looked at me and pointed.

“The Rebbe wants you.”

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

It turned out that, as is traditional at farbrengens, my father held up a cup of wine to say l’chaim with the Rebbe. The Rebbe looked at him to respond, and then motioned with his hands as if to say: Where’s your little boy?

Rabbi Zarchi went out of his mind: There was someone in his house that the Rebbe had just asked for! So, he ran back home, told me to get dressed, grabbed my hand, and we flew out the door. We ran down Kingston Avenue so quickly that I’m not sure my feet even touched the ground.

When we got to 770, there was no way for me to walk over to my father; he was sitting on one of the benches in the middle of the synagogue, surrounded by a mass of humanity. Instead, I was hoisted up and crowd-surfed until I got to my father.

Of course, my mother and sister also came along and were able to watch this extraordinary moment from the women’s section. Looking down from the balcony, my mother said it was like looking at a black canvas with two dots of color: My red crocheted vest, and my father’s tan suit, surrounded by black hats and jackets.

By this time, the Rebbe was addressing the crowd again, but when he concluded the talk, I was handed a little cup of my own, to say l’chaim to the Rebbe. When I held it up, the Rebbe motioned to me: Come here.

I started navigating my way over to the Rebbe’s table, squeezing between people and climbing over benches, until I arrived. The Rebbe poured a drop of wine for me from his own cup and then took a piece of cake from the plate in front of him and wrapped it in a napkin to give it to me – but I was still too far away to reach. I had to climb onto the Rebbe’s table. Then, lying on my stomach, I reached out with my hand. The Rebbe gave me the little cup and the piece of cake. He waited for me to recite the blessings – thankfully I already knew the right brachot to say – and he answered “Amen.”

Meanwhile, my mother was watching all of this from the balcony. As she sat there, she overheard two women talking nearby.

“Who is that kid?” one of them asked, wondering why the Rebbe had called on this little boy in the middle of a farbrengen.

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

Hearing that, my mother later said, changed everything for her. She realized that the Rebbe wasn’t saying that we were welcome in Lubavitch; he was demonstrating that we belonged.

The fact that the Rebbe met a little boy the day before, remembered him, and thought it would be meaningful for him to experience a farbrengen, meant a lot. He was also saying to the rest of my family that he was glad we were present, and that we were fully accepted as a part of his community.

The message the Rebbe gave us that day was one he always taught: You might be a seven-year-old kid, but you’re important. You’re precious in G-d’s eyes, and you matter to the Jewish people.

Nobody expected the Rebbe to single us out in any way, but he did, and it made all the difference. I would even say that was the day my parents became chasidim of the Rebbe – and my siblings and I followed suit.

Rabbi Pinney Herman and his wife, Helana, served as Chabad emissaries in Raleigh, North Carolina, for over thirty years. Today, they reside in South Florida, where they work as therapists offering individual and couples counseling. They also speak internationally on marriage and Jewish topics. Rabbi Herman was interviewed in March 2025.