I once met David Pelcovitz, Professor of Psychology at Yeshiva University and a renowned therapist for decades, at a conference. “Rabbi Jacobson,” he said, “let me share a first-hand story with you.” Dr. Pelcovitz then described meeting with a fifteen-year-old who described himself as the “black sheep” of a distinguished rabbinic family. Dr. Pelcovitz decided to invite the boy again, along with his parents and even grandparents. When they arrived, the grandfather asked to speak to Dr. Pelcovitz privately before the group meeting. He told his story, also addressing his son.
“I grew up in Poland as part of a beautiful and large family. All my brothers were learning in yeshiva and excelling at a rapid pace, yet there was one black sheep in the family. And who was that? Me. If the diagnostic terminology had been around in those days, I would have been diagnosed with them all. I couldn’t sit still in school, I couldn’t read, and I was out on the streets. My father had tremendous agony from me. I was not a source of nachas to my parents at all.
But one thing that I did have was a good sense of intuition and shrewdness. And so, one day in 1938, I picked up a book entitled Mein Kampf and began reading. When I finished the book, I came home and approached my father. “Tatty,” I said, “Germany and Poland share a border. This man is serious. Every Jew is going to be wiped out. We must escape before it is too late.”
My father dismissed this and said that I should be in a yeshiva instead of reading the works of some crazy anti-Semite.
“Perhaps you are right that I should be sitting in yeshiva, but crazy I am not. I am clever and savvy, and I can tell you that this man is serious and will act on his convictions. We have to flee before it is too late.” But my father wouldn’t hear of it. Yet I knew what I had to do. If my family was not going to run away, that didn’t mean I wouldn’t. And so, I painfully told my father, “I am sorry, but I will have to run away alone.” And that’s exactly what I did. Saying goodbye to my father and mother, I left Poland and crossed the ocean. As you all know, I was the only survivor of my entire family.”
And then the grandfather pointed to his grandson under discussion. “The only reason our family exists today is because of a boy like me and him. I was different and not capable of what my other brothers were capable of, yet I still went on to become very successful. And that boy of yours is exactly like his grandfather.” And then the grandfather made his point. “So, I nicely tell you, please don’t denigrate your son. Don’t put him down and make him feel worthless. The whole reason we are all here now studying Torah and attaining success in our respective endeavors is because of a boy like him.”
After hearing this story from Dr. Pelcovitz, I was profoundly moved. But I just had one question. “Doctor,” I said, “what is the end of the story? You cannot leave me stranded. What happened to the boy?”
“You should know,” said Dr. Pelcovitz, “that that same boy was hired by his grandfather to run his own business. And today, he is the one in charge, and all of his brothers work for him. He helps support each and every one of them.”
Sometimes, we look at someone – a child, a friend, a student – and only see blackness. We see a black sheep who has little potential and will seemingly amount to nothing special. But then we look again and realize that we have made a terrible mistake. Within every child lies a world of promising greatness. It is precisely those individuals who we at times expect the least from who go on to produce the most and make us the proudest. Every child is precious. All we have to do is look closely and see their hidden beauty waiting to shine.
RABBI YY JACOBSON
