Echoes of Pinchas: When Violence Claims Divine Approval

A few years ago, Ami Eshed, the police chief of Tel Aviv, resigned from his position, saying he was forced out for political reasons because he refused to use violence against protestors. He said:

“I could have easily used disproportionate force and filled Ichilov’s hospital emergency room at the end of every demonstration in Tel Aviv. We could have cleared the Ayalon Highway within minutes at the terrible cost of cracking heads and breaking bones and at the cost of breaking the pact between police and the citizenry. For the first time in my three decades of service, I was met with the bizarre reality in which calm and order were not the desired goal, but rather the contrary was the case.”

Pinchas: The Zealot as Hero

In last week’s parsha, Pinchas, Moses’s grand-nephew, acted with “disproportionate force” when he saw the Israelites whoring with the daughters of Moab and sacrificing to their god (Baal Peor). God told Moses to impale all the chiefs of Israel so that his divine wrath would subside. Moses instead instructed the judges to kill only those actively worshipping foreign gods. But before this could happen, an Israelite man brought a Midianite woman into the camp in full view of Moses and the people, who stood weeping, paralysed in grief.

“When Pinchas, son of Elazar son of Aaron the priest, saw this, he arose from the assembly and took a spear in his hand, and followed the Israelite into the chamber and stabbed both of them, the Israelite and the woman, through her belly. Then the plague against the Israelites was checked” (Numbers 25:7–8).

In this week’s parsha, God responds with praise:

“Pinchas son of Eleazar son of Aaron the priest turned away My wrath from the Israelites by acting zealously for My zealotry in their midst… Therefore say: ‘I hereby grant him My Covenant of Peace… a covenant of Eternal Priesthood’” (Numbers 25:11–13).

We later learn the man was Zimri, a Simeonite chieftain, and the woman Cozbi, daughter of a Midianite leader. God further commands hostility toward the Midianites:

“They have been foes to you through their wiles…” (Numbers 25:18).

This episode is ironic. Moses himself married Tziporah, daughter of Yitro, a Midianite priest who affirmed the God of Israel. Yet now, at the threshold of entering Canaan, a new leadership ideology emerges—one that elevates zealotry, fears the “other,” rewards and legitimizes violence in God’s name. This “new” ancient reality echoes modern tensions.

The Maccabees’ cry—“all those who are zealous for the Torah… follow me”—echoes Pinchas (1 Maccabees 2:24–28), as does Moses’s call after the Golden Calf: “Who is for God, follow me” (Exodus 32:26), followed by the mass killing of 3,000 Israelites.

Zealotry, it seems, is deeply embedded in the tradition. But so is unease. Rabbinic voices refuse to fully endorse Pinchas. Rabbinic tradition is deeply ambivalent about such zealotry. Pinchas acts impulsively—no warning, no deliberation. Moses too killed—an Egyptian taskmaster—but hesitated, looked around, and concealed the act (Exodus 2:12). Though often praised, some sages suggest this violence cost Moses entry into the Promised Land.

A midrash rebukes Moses:

“Did I tell you to slay the Egyptian?… Can you liken yourself to Me? I cause death, but I also revive the dead” (Midrash Petirat Moshe).

Isaiah echoes this tension:

“He saw there was no man… so His own arm brought salvation” (Isaiah 59:15–16).

Maybe that’s the point. When humans step into God’s role, things go wrong.

Pinchas follows Moses—but without hesitation, without concealment. His violence is public, immediate, and affirmed. This signals a shift in leadership: from reluctant action to instinctive zeal.

Divine Violence and Human Imitation

One might even question divine proportionality. God, too, acts with what we would call disproportionate force.

In this episode alone, 24,000 die in a plague though not initially mentioned. God threatens total destruction. Across the Tanakh—Flood, Sodom, plagues—divine response is often sweeping and devastating.

Thus Pinchas’s reward reflects divine precedent.

But should God be our model? Should we justify disproportionate force because God employs it?

Perhaps Moses understood it was time to step aside. Like Ami Eshed, he may have refused to fully enact destructive commands. Violence is easy. Anyone can pick up a spear. The harder task is restraint.

A powerful midrash explains why God chose Moses—not for killing, but for compassion:

“He looked upon their burdens and wept… ‘Would that I could die for you.’… He rearranged their burdens… God said: ‘You have shared their sorrow… I will speak only with you’” (Exodus Rabbah 1:27).

Leadership, in this vision, is rooted in empathy, not force.

This raises a pressing question: who replaces compassionate leaders? The danger lies in those who believe their violence carries divine approval.

Women at the End of the Story

Our parsha opened with aggression but ends with a striking counterpoint: women asserting rights.

Five women, the daughters of Zelophehad—Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah—challenge inheritance laws and demand justice:

“Give us a holding among our father’s kinsmen!” (Numbers 27:1–11).

God affirms them, establishing a legal precedent. Immediately after, Moses is told to prepare for death and appoint Joshua as successor.

No violence. No spear. Just argument. This juxtaposition is striking: zealotry at the beginning; justice and reform at the end.

The Haftarah: God Is Not in the Violence

The haftarah reinforces this tension. Elijah, like Pinchas, is a zealot. He expects God to appear theatrically. Yet God reveals:

“Not in the wind… not in the earthquake… not in the fire… but in a soft still voice”  (1 Kings 19:11–12).

God is in restraint. In subtlety. In the opposite of everything Pinchas represents. And Elijah? He is replaced by Elisha. Leadership must evolve.

A Story That Should Disturb Us

So in the end, how do you explain that a man who sees a couple fornicating in public grabs a spear and kills them, and then is rewarded with an “eternal covenant of peace”? If this were reported today, we would call it murder. So why do we hesitate when this story appears in our sacred text?

At Shittim, Israelite men consort with Moabite women and worship Baal Peor. God responds with wrath and plague. Zimri and Cozbi—elite figures—publicly defy norms. Pinchas kills them both.

History, often shaped by power, frames this act as righteous. But what if the women were not seductresses but victims? Cozbi, a chieftain’s daughter, may have had limited agency. The narrative blames women while ignoring power dynamics.

The spear—romach—can be rearranged as rechem (womb), evoking life and compassion (rachamim). The very symbol of life becomes the site of violence. Compassion (rachamim) is replaced by control.

Pinchas, grandson of Aaron, acts without authorization—yet is rewarded. A priesthood founded not on mercy, but bloodshed.

The Sages Draw a Line

Rabbinic voices resist this:

A broken letter, vav, in “shalom”– שלום (Numbers 25:12) hints that this peace is fractured (Kiddushin 66b).

Some sages considered excommunicating Pinchas (Jerusalem Talmud, Sanhedrin 9:7).

“Halakhah ve-ein morin kein”—it is the law, but we do not teach it (Sanhedrin 82a).

The message is clear: zealotry may exist within the system—but it is not a model to emulate.

Vigilante justice is dangerous.

Why This Still Matters

We still live in a world where every day in the settlements, violence is justified in the name of righteousness. Where zealots believe they are saviors. Where leaders are rewarded for force, not restraint. Where narratives are shaped by those who have political power.

Pinchas is not ancient history. He is a recurring type.

PINCHAS ON HIS DEATHBED: CONFESSION OR JUSTIFICATION?

I come from a lineage torn in two.

My grandfather Aharon was a man of peace… My great-uncle Moshe often ruled through anger. He killed an Egyptian; I did the same. When others froze, I acted.

And yet Aharon—who helped create the Golden Calf—is remembered as a peacemaker. Perhaps that’s why I received the covenant of peace.

I was also jealous. As a priest, I had restrictions. Others did not. When I saw Zimri and Cozbi together, I chose Moshe’s path. I lifted my spear—romach—and struck.

It felt righteous. But was Cozbi collateral damage?

Was it peace—or silence?

That spear—romach—spells rechem, womb. In piercing her, I rejected mercy.

Later, I failed again. When Jephthah** made his vow, I could have intervened. But pride prevailed—and a girl died.

Was I zealous for God—or mistaken?

I lifted a spear once. I’ve spent a lifetime wondering what else I killed that day.

**Note: The midrash that describes Jephthah’s refusal to seek annulment of his vow from the High Priest Phinehas—and Phinehas’s refusal to approach Jephthah—originates in Midrash Tanhuma, specifically in the section Tanhuma (Buber), Parashat Bechukotai 7. This midrash elaborates on the biblical account found in Judges 11 by adding that Jephthah, out of pride, would not go to Phinehas to annul the vow, and Phinehas, out of his own pride, would not go to Jephthah. As a result, Jephthah’s daughter was sacrificed, and both men were held responsible for the tragedy.

Shabbat shalom (hopefully, without the fractured vav)!