Lincoln was a statesman and a politician who felt bound by the substance and procedures of constitutional law. As much as he detested slavery and hoped for its demise, he did not believe that the federal government had the right to abolish slavery in individual states. This would violate their sovereignty, which he understood the Constitution to forbid. When Lincoln finally freed the slaves in 1863 by issuing the Emancipation Proclamation, he framed it not as a principled abolition of slavery but rather as “a fit and necessary war measure” needed to cripple the logistical capabilities of the Confederate army. For this reason, he somewhat paradoxically freed only the slaves residing in the states that had seceded. Nonetheless, this was a first step toward eliminating slavery altogether, and Lincoln himself saw the proclamation not simply as a war time measure but as a clarion call for freedom for all.

By contrast, John Brown, using religious terminology, described slavery as wickedness and an offense against God, and consequently the effort to eradicate it a divinely ordained mission. As an institution that used violence to achieve its ends, slavery could, if necessary, be countered with violence in order to eradicate it immediately and decisively. Brown never wavered in the belief that his cause and the methods used to achieve them were justified. In his final speech, delivered on November 2, 1859, at his trial for his role in the insurrection at Harper’s Ferry, he proclaimed, “I believe that to have interfered as I have done—as I have always freely admitted I have done—in behalf of His despised poor, was not wrong, but right.” Though in his lifetime Brown emancipated a handful of slaves at most, many see his actions at Harper’s Ferry as the match that sparked the conflagration that was the Civil War and therefore, ultimately, a catalyst for the abolition of slavery.

The contrast between Lincoln and Brown can be useful in understanding the Pineḥas narrative in general and his character and actions in particular.  opens with the Israelites consorting with Midianite women and consequently worshipping the Midianite god Baal Peor. They are described as being joined or coupled with (vayitzamed) Baal Peor (25:3); the connection to Baal Peor mirrors the sexual connection with the women, as Ibn Ezra points out. This angers God, who commands Moses, “Take the chieftains of the people and expose them in broad daylight before God, so that God’s anger will be turned back” (25:4). Moses commands Israel’s judges to carry out this divine command. This means that before Pinehas arrives on the scene a divine response to Israel’s sinfulness is being acted upon. Divine law is prevailing. Moses and his lieutenants are operating in the “Lincoln mode.”

This fact is emphasized by the Aramaic Targum Onkelos and others who understand “them” in verse 4 as referring not to the chieftains—who might have been held responsible for not preventing the idolatrous orgy—but to those who had sinned. The chieftains were tasked with judging and executing those found guilty. This reading foregrounds the legal nature of the proceedings.

Suddenly, the scene shifts. Zimri ben Salu, the chieftain of the tribe of Simeon, brings a Midianite woman, Cozbi daughter of Zur, into the Israelite camp before Moses and the people (25:6). It is clear from verse 8 that this “bringing” involved intercourse with this woman in a tent that was within plain sight. The reaction of the people is to weep (loc. cit). It would seem that the congregation—and Moses—are at a loss as to how to respond to this breathtaking act of sexual provocation and rebellion.

Pinehas now enters the scene, but he does not act immediately. First, he takes in the outrageous behavior of Zimri and the failure of the people to respond. He decides that if no one else will act he will; he therefore arises from the midst of the assembly (25: 7). This is both an indication of intent to act and a declaration that he is separating himself from the passivity of the assembly. How he will act is not yet clear. And then he takes a spear into his hand (loc. cit.), and we know that he has decided to inflict violence upon Zimri and his consort. He enters the tent and runs them both through with the spear, making sure to pierce Cozbi’s womb, a horribly punitive reenactment of Zimri’s act of penetration (25:8).

Pinehas operates in the “Brown mode.” He sees Zimri’s act as an outrage and concludes that immediate and dramatic action is needed. There is no divine imperative forthcoming, but Pinehas is confident that it is God’s will that Pinehas avenge His honor.

It is striking that Pinehas does not consider the possibility that in acting without consulting Moses, he, like Zimri, is undermining Moses’s authority. It is to address this problem that the Talmudic sage Shmuel says in  that what Pinehas “saw” before him was the verse, “There is no wisdom nor understanding nor counsel against the Lord” (). Shmuel is alluding to a teaching elsewhere that in some situations God’s honor takes precedence over the dignity of even the greatest sage (). Like John Brown, Pinehas sees the moment as one in which acting on behalf of God takes precedence over conventional norms of law and authority.

It is perhaps for this reason that the Torah feels it necessary to include God’s approval of Pinehas’s actions after the fact (). No person, not even Moses, was empowered to place his seal of approval on Pinehas’s extrajudicial act; only God Himself could do this.

We are not Pinehas; we do not hear God’s voice expressing approval of taking the law into our own hands. The very fact that divine assent was required in Pinehas’s case suggests that we should think twice and then twice more before acting outside the law. Reflecting upon the consequences, and the unethical nature, of extrajudicial actions such as John Brown’s—not to mention those taken by individuals in our own time who are acting on the basis of patent lies—should make us wary of acting outside the law, especially when the action will involve violence. The Talmudic sages themselves were uncomfortable with Pinehas’s actions and explained them away. Yet Pinehas is part of our tradition, and his actions highlight tensions with which we continue to grapple.

This commentary was originally published in 2022.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

Let’s note some key words in this verse. I’ve bolded words to which I’ll return below.

Heshiv et hamati –&�Բ�����;turned back My wrath
Velo kiliti et benei yisrael –&�Բ�����;I did not put an end (from kol – all or complete) to the Israelites
Bekinati –&�Բ�����;through My zeal

The above translations are borrowed from Robert Alter (no relation) and the New JPS translation. Everett Fox is even more incendiary:

“�Ħhas turned my venomous anger from the Children of Israel… so that I did not finish off the Children of Israel in my jealousy.”

Can we live with this God? It seems that to be committed to God is to stride across a volcano.  . . Or that we’re in covenant with a venomous and jealous serpent (God forbid!) predisposed to lashing out at our missteps and provocations. Indeed, life with God means being perpetually at risk of total destruction. And yet, somehow, this perilous existence is supposed to express God’s love and zeal for us?

Now, to be fair, our parashah also offers an alternate portrait of God. In chapter 27, the daughters of Zelophehad request from Moses a variance in inheritance law. As their father had no sons, the established law would have the family’s portion (still to be assigned in the still-to-be-conquered Promised Land) bequeathed to their male cousins instead of to them. “Why should our father’s name be withdrawn from the midst of his clan because he had no son?” (27:4) Again we have the prospect of total disappearance, of vanishing in God’s uncompromising realm. This time the threat is not God’s punishing personality, but rather the application of God’s law. Moses hears their request and brings it to God for adjudication. God promptly replies, “Rightly do the daughters of Zelophehad speak” and authorizes direct inheritance to a daughter in the absence of a son. (Equal rights for women follow in Jewish tradition, but that’s a separate discussion.) Here we see God quick to preserve one who is at risk of disappearing and a ready willingness to adjust and accommodate in order to do so.

The next passage is the essential counterbalance to the seemingly uninhabitable territory of our parashah’s opening. God instructs Moses to ascend Mount Aravim whence —as the final act before his life ends—he will view the Promised Land. (27:12) Upon learning that his own death is now upon him, Moses makes an extraordinary plea:

“Let the LORD, God of the spirits for all flesh (kol basar), appoint a man over the community, who will go out before them and come in before them and who will lead them in and out on the march so that the LORD’s community will not be like a flock that has no shepherd.”

()

Moses, a shepherd from his first to his last, knows well what becomes of a shepherdless flock. It quickly scatters and will be entirely lost, as if it never was. Individual sheep may survive in the wilderness, but the collective—the flock, identified with its master and the land on which it pastures and grows—will vanish. And so Moses asks that God appoint a successor, and thoughtfully names the credentials he feels the new leader must have. It seems impossible that God did not already intend to appoint a successor to Moses as God had for Aaron. Why, then, does Moses make this request?

Rabbi Levi Yitzhak of Berditchev, in his commentaryKedushat Levi, infers a quality of leadership that Moses seeks but does not make explicit: to speak to the merits of the people she or he leads. That is, that any leader of the Jewish people must speak toourmerits, must be ready to defend us, given that we do not and will not carry out God’s will consistently as angels do. As people, mere basar vadam—flesh and blood—we are out of necessity preoccupied with our own sustenance. With that preoccupation, we sometimes fail to carry ourselves as servants of God.

Levi Yitzhak teaches that Abraham served a meal to angels—who have no need for food—when they visited him in  in order to give them insight into the human experience. Abraham’s meal was a lesson in human dependency. The angels would see the effort that goes into preparing a meal and setting the table. They would note the time it took to eat and they would observe the flow of dinner table conversation. They would learn that humans are bound up in this experience, this need, multiple times a day each day. And so on with our other needs and preoccupations. This would teach the angels what it is to be human and allow them to better understand the space in which we live our relationship with God and God’s demands. It would allow them to speak to our merits.

Moses, says Levi Yitzhak, understood that God, “God of the spirits for all flesh,” recognizes the dependency of humans — “all flesh”—and brings compassion and boundless patience to bear in carrying humanity in the world. God speaks to the merits of humanity all the time; that’s how and why humanity persists in spite of its incessant violations of the inviolable. Moses made his plea to be assured that after Moses’s departure from the world, God would find a leader who would speak passionately to God specifically of the merits of the Jewish people and thereby secure God’s compassion and patience for them. For we are mere flesh and blood—basar vadam.

The frightening language of the opening of our parashah is quietly echoed every day in the words with which we begin the weekday ����’a������ (evening) service—a citation from :

Vehu rahum yehaper avon velo yash-hit
Vehirbah lehashiv apo velo ya’ir kol hamato

“God is merciful, forgives iniquity, does not destroy, is quick to turn away His ire, and keeps His anger in check.”

A 10th century siddur known as Mahzor Vitry prescribes also reciting  at the beginning of the evening service: “For the LORD your God is a merciful god. He will not let you go and will not destroy you.”

Opening the evening service as we do reflects anxiety on the one hand and confidence on the other. Anxiety: because darkness stirs up fear, but also because the passing of a day means the passing of chances to do right. We cannot take back what we did or didn’t do in the course of a day. It is done. But the verses express, too, confidence that God is compassionate and will be there with us again come morning. Only a moment later in the service we proclaim that God loves us eternally. With this voice of confidence, we commence our evening prayers.

Life with God can be permeated by fear. But our parashah teaches—and our evening liturgy affirms—that God worries about exacting wrath. God worries that our proximity to God puts us at risk. And so God is happy for anything that makes it possible for us to live with God. Especially for people who, with great love, look for the best in others and speak to their merits. For people, be they national leaders or leaders in more intimate realms like family, who channel God’s own love and make space for life.

This commentary was originally published in 2015.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Parashah Commentary are made possible by a generous
grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

Tucked away at the conclusion of this week’s parashah is another narrative of succession, one that appears smooth and uncomplicated by comparison. In chapter 27, God announces Moses’s impending death and Joshua is appointed successor. Like his brother Aaron before him, Moses is instructed to ascend a mountain and view the Promised Land. Moses too will not enter the land because of a transgression (in his case the striking of the rock). But there is one key difference in God’s announcements to the brothers of their impending deaths. To Aaron, God explicitly commands the passing of the priesthood to his son Eleazar, a process marked by the stripping of Aaron’s priestly garments and their transfer to his son. But Moses must initiate the appointment of his successor. Why would God announce a successor to Aaron and not Moses? Did God not have a plan for Moses to hand over the reins?

Looking closely at what Moses says, we can see that the Torah text is drawing attention to God’s reticence. The passage begins: “Moses spoke to Adonai saying,” which is a reversal of the usual and more frequent phrasing we encounter, that “God spoke to Moses saying . . . ” Something is amiss. Moses continues:

Let Adonai, Source of the breath of all flesh, appoint someone over the community who shall go out before them and come in before them, and who shall take them out and bring them in, so that Adonai’s community may not be a sheep without a shepherd.

(Num 27: 15–17)

The final line suggests that Moses believes God does not intend to appoint another leader after his death. Without a successor, B’nai Yisrael will scatter like sheep and not make it “home” to the promised land. He is urging God to see that the consequences to God’s plan would be disastrous.

Why would God be reluctant to appoint a successor to Moses? The Israeli Biblical scholar Elie Assis explains that “the conception behind this is that Israel’s exclusive leader is God himself. The ideology is that God is sovereign over the world, and placing a single human leader at the head of the nation diminished God’s sovereignty.”[1] Moses was a necessary bridge to creating a relationship with B’nai Yisrael, but God has no intention of institutionalizing this leadership role

Joshua’s succession is thus not a fait accompli. Moses has to convince God that the people’s very existence and the fulfillment of their destiny is dependent on having a leader. 

The two positions presented here can be understood in terms of the very real tension between ideology (one’s principles or core beliefs) and practicality that we regularly encounter in political life. How often do we hear the complaint that some public figure or another is too “ideological”—they are so wedded to the purity of their ideas that progress is unachievable. And yes, rigidly adhering to ideology can make it harder to develop effective solutions to real problems. But practical decisions, the promises to “get things done,” when not grounded in principle can lead to actions that are amoral or unethical. Ideology can provide a moral compass and a sense of meaning, while practicality can help ensure that goals are achievable. Moses demonstrates how important it is to find the balance between the two.

Joshua and his leadership are presented in a way that suggests his unique ability to serve as a compromise figure. As Assis further argues, the language used to describe Joshua in the Torah and in the Book of Joshua suggests that he is to be regarded not as a leader in his own right but as a second Moses. Joshua had always been close to Moses, presented elsewhere in the Torah as Moses’s “attendant from his youth” (Num. 11:28) and his personal valet (Rabeinu Bahia on Exod. 33:11).  Their intimacy is further exemplified in the rite of succession where Moses lays his hands over Joshua. God commands Moses to transfer something of himself, v’natanah mehodekha, to invest Joshua not with the external signs of leadership (a title, a garment) but with some of Moses’s authority (Num. 11:20).  Many of Joshua’s actions in the book that bears his name mirror actions that Moses had taken. He makes less of an impression as a distinct individual; rather when one sees Joshua, one is to think of Moses.

Moses recognizes the real needs of B’nai Yisrael—they will be in crisis after his death and in Joshua they are given someone close to Moses who can help them cope with the trauma of their loss. And God accepts this, but we are also to not lose sight of the distinctive idea that guides B’nai Yisrael—that there is one God and God alone is the sovereign.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).   

[1] “Divine Versus Human Leadership: An Examination of Joshua’s Succession.” Saints and Role Models in Judaism and Christianity ed. Poorthuis and Schwartz, 2003. 34.

Lincoln was a statesman and a politician who felt bound by the substance and procedures of constitutional law. As much as he detested slavery and hoped for its demise, he did not believe that the federal government had the right to abolish slavery in individual states. This would violate their sovereignty, which he understood the Constitution to forbid. When Lincoln finally freed the slaves in 1863 by issuing the Emancipation Proclamation, he framed it not as a principled abolition of slavery but rather as “a fit and necessary war measure” needed to cripple the logistical capabilities of the Confederate army. For this reason, he somewhat paradoxically freed only the slaves residing in the states that had seceded. Nonetheless, this was a first step toward eliminating slavery altogether, and Lincoln himself saw the proclamation not simply as a war time measure but as a clarion call for freedom for all.

By contrast, John Brown, using religious terminology, described slavery as wickedness and an offense against God, and consequently the effort to eradicate it a divinely ordained mission. As an institution that used violence to achieve its ends, slavery could, if necessary, be countered with violence in order to eradicate it immediately and decisively. Brown never wavered in the belief that his cause and the methods used to achieve them were justified. In his final speech, delivered on November 2, 1859, at his trial for his role in the insurrection at Harper’s Ferry, he proclaimed, “I believe that to have interfered as I have done—as I have always freely admitted I have done—in behalf of His despised poor, was not wrong, but right.” Though in his lifetime Brown emancipated a handful of slaves at most, many see his actions at Harper’s Ferry as the match that sparked the conflagration that was the Civil War and therefore, ultimately, a catalyst for the abolition of slavery.

The contrast between Lincoln and Brown can be useful in understanding the Pineḥas narrative in general and his character and actions in particular. Numbers Chapter 25 opens with the Israelites consorting with Midianite women and consequently worshipping the Midianite god Baal Peor. They are described as being joined or coupled with (vayitzamed) Baal Peor (25:3); the connection to Baal Peor mirrors the sexual connection with the women, as Ibn Ezra points out. This angers God, who commands Moses, “Take the chieftains of the people and expose them in broad daylight before God, so that God’s anger will be turned back” (25:4). Moses commands Israel’s judges to carry out this divine command. This means that before Pinehas arrives on the scene a divine response to Israel’s sinfulness is being acted upon. Divine law is prevailing. Moses and his lieutenants are operating in the “Lincoln mode.”

This fact is emphasized by the Aramaic Targum Onkelos and others who understand “them” in verse 4 as referring not to the chieftains—who might have been held responsible for not preventing the idolatrous orgy—but to those who had sinned. The chieftains were tasked with judging and executing those found guilty. This reading foregrounds the legal nature of the proceedings.

Suddenly, the scene shifts. Zimri ben Salu, the chieftain of the tribe of Simeon, brings a Midianite woman, Cozbi daughter of Zur, into the Israelite camp before Moses and the people (25:6). It is clear from verse 8 that this “bringing” involved intercourse with this woman in a tent that was within plain sight. The reaction of the people is to weep (loc. cit). It would seem that the congregation—and Moses—are at a loss as to how to respond to this breathtaking act of sexual provocation and rebellion.

Pinehas now enters the scene, but he does not act immediately. First, he takes in the outrageous behavior of Zimri and the failure of the people to respond. He decides that if no one else will act he will; he therefore arises from the midst of the assembly (25: 7). This is both an indication of intent to act and a declaration that he is separating himself from the passivity of the assembly. How he will act is not yet clear. And then he takes a spear into his hand (loc. cit.), and we know that he has decided to inflict violence upon Zimri and his consort. He enters the tent and runs them both through with the spear, making sure to pierce Cozbi’s womb, a horribly punitive reenactment of Zimri’s act of penetration (25:8).

Pinehas operates in the “Brown mode.” He sees Zimri’s act as an outrage and concludes that immediate and dramatic action is needed. There is no divine imperative forthcoming, but Pinehas is confident that it is God’s will that Pinehas avenge His honor.

It is striking that Pinehas does not consider the possibility that in acting without consulting Moses, he, like Zimri, is undermining Moses’s authority. It is to address this problem that the Talmudic sage Shmuel says in Sanhedrin 82a that what Pinehas “saw” before him was the verse, “There is no wisdom nor understanding nor counsel against the Lord” (Proverbs 21, 30). Shmuel is alluding to a teaching elsewhere that in some situations God’s honor takes precedence over the dignity of even the greatest sage (Berakhot 19b). Like John Brown, Pinehas sees the moment as one in which acting on behalf of God takes precedence over conventional norms of law and authority.

It is perhaps for this reason that the Torah feels it necessary to include God’s approval of Pinehas’s actions after the fact (Numbers 25: 10–13). No person, not even Moses, was empowered to place his seal of approval on Pinehas’s extrajudicial act; only God Himself could do this.

We are not Pinehas; we do not hear God’s voice expressing approval of taking the law into our own hands. The very fact that divine assent was required in Pinehas’s case suggests that we should think twice and then twice more before acting outside the law. Reflecting upon the consequences, and the unethical nature, of extrajudicial actions such as John Brown’s—not to mention those taken by individuals in our own time who are acting on the basis of patent lies—should make us wary of acting outside the law, especially when the action will involve violence. The Talmudic sages themselves were uncomfortable with Pinehas’s actions and explained them away. Yet Pinehas is part of our tradition, and his actions highlight tensions with which we continue to grapple.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

This is not to say, of course, that religion has failed to play a significant role throughout history in the instigation of wars or the perpetration of individual acts of violence. History is replete with such examples from the Crusades, to the massacre at Hebron by Baruch Goldstein, to the killing and maiming of abortion providers by fundamentalist Christians, to acts of terror committed in the name of Islam. Those of us who take religious life seriously and who see its fundamental values expressed in concepts of love, justice, and human dignity cannot help but feel both disgusted and defensive about this history of wars and violent acts undertaken in the name of religious conviction even if our secular friends and neighbors tend to impose disproportionate blame on religion for the world’s woes.

This week’s Torah portion, Pinehas, frames like no other parashah the problem of biblical religion’s relationship to violence, particularly zealotry and vigilantism. Last week we read the story of Pinehas, the grandson of Aaron, who saw an Israelite man and a Midianite woman publicly having sex in an alcove (kubah) near or in the Tabernacle. Without warning or any judicial proceedings, Pinehas grabbed a spear and thrust it through them both in a violent parody of the sexual act itself (the spear ended in the woman’s kubah, which may refer either to her belly or her sexual part). That parashah ended with a plague being lifted, but no definitive word about how God or Moses viewed this act of vigilantism ().

That judgment is rendered at the beginning of this week’s parashah and to our modern sensibilities as well as our fundamental understanding of religious values, it is a stunner:

The Lord spoke to Moses, saying: “Pinehas, son of Elazar son of Aaron the priest, has turned back My wrath from the Israelites by displaying among them his passion for Me, so that I did not wipe out the Israelite people in My passion. Say, therefore, ‘I grant My pact of friendship (beriti shalom). It shall be for him and his descendants after him a pact of priesthood for all time, because he took impassioned action for his God, thus making expiation for the Israelites.’”

This is not merely divine applause; it is a godly standing ovation. God credits Pinehas’s extrajudicial killing with saving the Israelite people from extermination by plague and bestows upon him and his posterity the religious leadership of the people through the office of the High Priest, an honor in parallel to God’s promise to David on the political side. All of this is wrapped within a pact of friendship between God and Pinehas.

How are we to understand this apparent divine approval of an act of extreme violence and religious zealotry? Perhaps the answer lies with the nature of the sin perpetrated in the alcove.

The modern biblical scholar Richard Elliot Friedman asserts that the essence of the crime was not immoral sexual relations but rather a violation of the sanctity of the Tabernacle (Commentary on the Torah, 514 [on ]). As non-Levites, the perpetrators were not even allowed to enter that sacred space, much less have intimate relations there. Since the commission of the ritual crime is clear and there can be no defense, Pinehas as a priest was justified in entering the Tabernacle and inflicting the prescribed punishment. While to our modern eyes the result may still seem shocking, this interpretation has the benefit of precluding the Pinehas story from being used as a justification for violent acts of contemporary religious zealotry. Since the unique holiness of the Tabernacle no longer exists, so too is extinguished any justification for future religious killings based on the rationale that motivated Pinehas.

Other biblical commentators reject the view that the crime at issue was a ritual crime and argue instead that it was really a political transgression (See Robert Alter, The Five Books of Moses, 819–20, and n. 8, 14–15; Rabbi Sholom Riskin, Torah Lights: A Biblical Commentary, 207–211). This position is supported by the identification of the perpetrators, who are revealed in our parashah to be Zimri, son of Salu, a chieftain of the tribe of Simeon, and Cozbi daughter of Zur, a Midianite princess (). The tribe of Simeon was second in terms of seniority behind the tribe of Reuben and ahead of the tribe of Levi, from whom Moses descended. The Midianites were worshippers of Baal Peor, a particularly noxious religious cult in the eyes of God.

Thus the public cohabitation between a Simeonite chieftain and a Midianite princess could be viewed as an existential challenge to the established (and God-ordained) religious and political order of the Israelite nation. Pinehas’s decisive act was intended to preserve that order. As 91�첥 professor Alan Mittleman writes in his insightful analysis of violence in the Jewish tradition, “Zimri puts the authority of Moses and ultimately the authority of God in jeopardy. Thus, Pinehas might be taken to have acted outside the normative constraints of the system of Mosaic law in order to save the system” (Does Judaism Condone Violence? 167).

The political, rather than cultic, interpretation of Pinehas’s act, even if limited to an existential threat to the polity itself, creates the danger that the Pinehas episode will be misused as a precedent and even a justification for violent political action. One only has to reflect on the assassination of Yitzhak Rabin by Yigal Amir, which mixed political and religious motivations, to see the potency of this danger. Undoubtedly, this is why the Rabbis of the Talmud placed so many limitations on the precedential value of this biblical episode as to render it a virtual nullity for purposes of modeling religious behavior ().

Nevertheless, the question remains: why the divine blessing of a berit shalom for Pinehas? Here I choose to rely not on modern biblical scholarship but rather on homiletics. The Netziv (Naftali Zvi Yehuda Berlin) offers this explanation for the berit shalom: “In reward for turning away the wrath of the Holy Blessed One, God blessed him [Pinehas] with the attribute of peace, that he should not be quick-tempered or angry.” Just as God was turned back from the way of violence and death when God terminated the plague, God bestows upon Pinehas and all of us the berit shalom so that we too will be turned away from the path of anger and violence and returned to the path of peace. Like Pinehas’s grandfather, Aaron, we should become once again lovers of shalom and pursuers of shalom.

This commentary was published originally in 2019.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).   

First, one must note the way in which the daughters approach Moshe and the chieftains. Far from coming with justified rage and aggression (as Korah and his cohort do – vayakumu lifnei Moshe, “They rose up before Moses”)—the Torah’s language is nuanced: vatikravnah and �����ٲ�’a���ǻ�Բ�—they “come close” and “stand confidently” before leaders of Israel. Once before these elders, they rationally explain their case—first by defusing any residual tension related to the uprising of Korah (they state clearly that their father was not involved) and second, by stating their cause in a compelling and just way. Rashi, the great medieval commentator, sings the praises of these daughters in remarking that “their eyes saw what Moses’s eyes did not see.” The choice of posture and words is not inconsequential in seeking the desired outcome. They know well that courage and kavod (respect) are critical elements that will lead them a step closer toward perpetuating the memory of their father.

Second, from Moses’s response, we know well that he is at a loss for how to answer them. Interestingly, this is one of four cases in the Torah (the others being Lev. 24:10–22 [the blasphemer]; Num. 9:6–14 [Pesah sheni]; Num. 15:32–36 [Shabbat violator]) when the Torah’s instructions prove insufficient—even for the greatest prophet of Israel—to render a decision. Though Moshe does not explicitly acknowledge that he doesn’t know the answer, his actions clearly confirm this. Moshe brings the case before God and hopes the matter will be resolved through counsel with the Divine. Far from worrying about how others would perceive this gap in his knowledge, Moshe embraces the occasion. It is an et ratzon, auspicious moment, for him that demonstrates admirable leadership. Indeed, the midrash Numbers Rabbah 21:12 lauds Moses for serving as a model to “the heads of the Sanhedrin of Israel that were destined to arise after him, that they should not be embarrassed to ask for assistance in cases too difficult for them. For even Moses, who was Master of Israel had to say, ‘I have not understood.’ Therefore Moses brought their case before the Lord.”

Finally, God provides us with a powerful example of leadership, using this as a teaching moment for Moses, the daughters, and the entire community. God states clearly that the plea of the daughters is just and requires an addendum to the law of inheritance promulgated in Torah. Yet, far from being limited only to Tzelophahad and his daughters, this expanded law will now apply to all of Israel. Granted, sons will still be considered the natural heirs, but if the deceased does not have sons, from this moment on, the daughters will become the heirs—empowered to perpetuate the name of the deceased for generations to come.

Taken collectively, we, the descendants of Moses and the daughters of Tzelophahad, are infinitely enriched by the encounter that unfolds in this week’s parashah. The easier path for the daughters would have been to shy away from confrontation; they could have seen themselves as collateral damage—victims of Torah’s patriarchal claim and their parents’ inability to have sons. Rather, a sense of injustice welled up in their souls that enabled them to confront both human and Divine leadership. And similarly, Moses, as the leader of the Children of Israel, could have simply restated the laws of inheritance—reinforcing the absolute law of Torah rather than acknowledging a gap in his own knowledge. Moses could have reasoned better that Torah and my leadership should remain intact than admit to shortcomings and fallibility. To his credit, he recognizes his shortcomings and the power and potential of the case before him and places the matter in God’s hands.

And while God could have limited judgment to these plaintiffs, God recognizes that equality before the law and true justice are “on trial.” As British biblical scholar Philip Budd writes, “Theologically, the section presses the rights of women to a clear and recognized legal position within the sphere of property law. They are seen as a proper channel through which the threads of possession and inheritance may properly be traced” (Word Biblical Commentary: Numbers, 303). God’s decision inspires hope for a better future—not only for the daughters but for all women (and men!) who will come after them and find themselves in the same position.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

This is not to say, of course, that religion has failed to play a significant role throughout history in the instigation of wars or the perpetration of individual acts of violence. History is replete with such examples from the Crusades, to the massacre at Hebron by Baruch Goldstein, to the killing and maiming of abortion providers by fundamentalist Christians, to acts of terror committed in the name of Islam. Those of us who take religious life seriously and who see its fundamental values expressed in concepts of love, justice, and human dignity cannot help but feel both disgusted and defensive about this history of wars and violent acts undertaken in the name of religious conviction even if our secular friends and neighbors tend to impose disproportionate blame on religion for the world’s woes.

This week’s Torah portion, Pinehas, frames like no other parashah the problem of biblical religion’s relationship to violence, particularly zealotry and vigilantism. Last week we read the story of Pinehas, the grandson of Aaron, who saw an Israelite man and a Midianite woman publicly having sex in an alcove (kubah) near or in the Tabernacle. Without warning or any judicial proceedings, Pinehas grabbed a spear and thrust it through them both in a violent parody of the sexual act itself (the spear ended in the woman’s kubah, which may refer either to her belly or her sexual part). That parashah ended with a plague being lifted, but no definitive word about how God or Moses viewed this act of vigilantism (Num. 25:6–9).

That judgment is rendered at the beginning of this week’s parashah and to our modern sensibilities as well as our fundamental understanding of religious values, it is a stunner:

The Lord spoke to Moses, saying: “Pinehas, son of Elazar son of Aaron the priest, has turned back My wrath from the Israelites by displaying among them his passion for Me, so that I did not wipe out the Israelite people in My passion. Say, therefore, ‘I grant My pact of friendship (beriti shalom). It shall be for him and his descendants after him a pact of priesthood for all time, because he took impassioned action for his God, thus making expiation for the Israelites.’”

This is not merely divine applause; it is a godly standing ovation. God credits Pinehas’s extrajudicial killing with saving the Israelite people from extermination by plague and bestows upon him and his posterity the religious leadership of the people through the office of the High Priest, an honor in parallel to God’s promise to David on the political side. All of this is wrapped within a pact of friendship between God and Pinehas.

How are we to understand this apparent divine approval of an act of extreme violence and religious zealotry? Perhaps the answer lies with the nature of the sin perpetrated in the alcove.

The modern biblical scholar Richard Elliot Friedman asserts that the essence of the crime was not immoral sexual relations but rather a violation of the sanctity of the Tabernacle (Commentary on the Torah, 514 [on Num. 25:8]). As non-Levites, the perpetrators were not even allowed to enter that sacred space, much less have intimate relations there. Since the commission of the ritual crime is clear and there can be no defense, Pinehas as a priest was justified in entering the Tabernacle and inflicting the prescribed punishment. While to our modern eyes the result may still seem shocking, this interpretation has the benefit of precluding the Pinehas story from being used as a justification for violent acts of contemporary religious zealotry. Since the unique holiness of the Tabernacle no longer exists, so too is extinguished any justification for future religious killings based on the rationale that motivated Pinehas.

Other biblical commentators reject the view that the crime at issue was a ritual crime and argue instead that it was really a political transgression (See Robert Alter, The Five Books of Moses, 819–20, and n. 8, 14–15; Rabbi Sholom Riskin, Torah Lights: A Biblical Commentary, 207–211). This position is supported by the identification of the perpetrators, who are revealed in our parashah to be Zimri, son of Salu, a chieftain of the tribe of Simeon, and Cozbi daughter of Zur, a Midianite princess (Num. 25:14–15). The tribe of Simeon was second in terms of seniority behind the tribe of Reuben and ahead of the tribe of Levi, from whom Moses descended. The Midianites were worshippers of Baal Peor, a particularly noxious religious cult in the eyes of God.

Thus the public cohabitation between a Simeonite chieftain and a Midianite princess could be viewed as an existential challenge to the established (and God-ordained) religious and political order of the Israelite nation. Pinehas’s decisive act was intended to preserve that order. As 91�첥 professor Alan Mittleman writes in his insightful analysis of violence in the Jewish tradition, “Zimri puts the authority of Moses and ultimately the authority of God in jeopardy. Thus, Pinehas might be taken to have acted outside the normative constraints of the system of Mosaic law in order to save the system” (Does Judaism Condone Violence? 167) .

The political, rather than cultic, interpretation of Pinehas’s act, even if limited to an existential threat to the polity itself, creates the danger that the Pinehas episode will be misused as a precedent and even a justification for violent political action. One only has to reflect on the assassination of Yitzhak Rabin by Yigal Amir, which mixed political and religious motivations, to see the potency of this danger. Undoubtedly, this is why the Rabbis of the Talmud placed so many limitations on the precedential value of this biblical episode as to render it a virtual nullity for purposes of modeling religious behavior (BT Sanhedrin 82a).

Nevertheless, the question remains: why the divine blessing of a berit shalom for Pinehas? Here I choose to rely not on modern biblical scholarship but rather on homiletics. The Netziv (Naftali Zvi Yehuda Berlin) offers this explanation for the berit shalom: “In reward for turning away the wrath of the Holy Blessed One, God blessed him [Pinehas] with the attribute of peace, that he should not be quick-tempered or angry.” Just as God was turned back from the way of violence and death when God terminated the plague, God bestows upon Pinehas and all of us the berit shalom so that we too will be turned away from the path of anger and violence and returned to the path of peace. Like Pinehas’s grandfather, Aaron, we should become once again lovers of shalom and pursuers of shalom.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

According to Walter Brueggeman (Reality, Grief, Hope: Three Urgent Prophetic Tasks), the broken cisterns represent a corrupted ideology, distorted and unsustainable, that the people are using to deny reality and the need for change. Like Jeremiah, Brueggemann argues that healing and hope are dependent on stripping away denial, confronting reality, and experiencing the concomitant grief.

Food for thought:

• What are the sources of true nourishment and vitality that our society is abandoning?
• What values and ways of being do we cling to that will never be sustaining and healthy?
• What realities must be confronted and losses grieved in order to change course?

Listen to the haftarah brought to life as it is declaimed in English by renowned actor Ronald Guttman by .