Changing the rules: The Pittsburgher Rebbe’s secret to success lies in humble leadership

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.

A Contrast in Courts

Standing by the hall’s edge, I recalled a starkly different experience months ago at a major Jerusalem chassidus’s simcha. A part-time affiliate of that court, I took a day off work, dressed in Shabbos garb, and arrived eager to honor their leader. But access to the Admor eluded me, no seat welcomed me, and even food was out of reach. I left empty-handed, my effort reduced to a faceless figure in a photo captioned “Thousands rejoice.” Next time, I said, they’d manage without me.

At the Pittsburgher’s event, a chassid approached with a light refreshment and a gift: Kovtzei Divrei Kodesh, a collection of the Rebbe’s 5784 teachings, published for the occasion. Flipping through its pages, I noticed the list of supporters who brought it to life—most weren’t Pittsburgher chassidim but admirers of the Rebbe’s path, drawn by his fiery love for Israel and his Torah’s sanctity. It was a revelation: his influence transcends his court, touching souls who crave a leader they can reach.

The chassid shared a marvel: every Shabbos, as yeshiva boys line up for the Rebbe’s blessing, he shakes each hand, prolonging the ritual by an hour. “We have dozens of students now,” the Rebbe once explained. “I can’t meet each one individually during the week. On Shabbos eve, when I clasp their hand, they feel my closeness—it strengthens and encourages them.” It’s a small act, but it’s everything—a Rebbe who prioritizes connection over ceremony.

A Lesson for the Ages

This isn’t a paid endorsement or a sales pitch—just a reflection of reality as it unfolds. The Pittsburgher Rebbe, with his approachable grace, is poised to captivate the next generation. They need leaders like this—ones you can approach, ones who approach you. His court radiates a holiness and joy beyond measure, a stark contrast to the rigid hierarchies elsewhere.

Once, Rabbi Moshe Friedman, the legendary gabbai of Satmar’s Admors, remarked, “I regret that Satmar split into two courts!” When pressed—after all, he’d played a role in the divide—he replied with wisdom: “Yes, I regret it wasn’t ten courts. Back then, we boasted 5,000 chassidim, 12,000 on Rosh Hashanah. But today, it’s greater for each Admor to bond with his flock. This generation needs it—the street’s temptations overwhelm us otherwise.” His lament underscores a truth the Pittsburgher Rebbe embodies: leadership thrives not in numbers, but in nearness.

Blessed is this generation to bask in his light.