Holy Zeal

By: Yochanan Gordon

“Pinchas the son of Elazar, the son of Aharon HaKohen, has turned back My wrath from upon the Children of Israel by displaying My vengeance among them… therefore behold, I give him My covenant of peace.”

These are the opening words of this week’s parshah. This week also marks the beginning of the Three Weeks, the period of mourning that culminates with the Nine Days and Tishah B’Av.

There is a profound irony embedded within these opening verses.

Pinchas commits one of the most dramatic acts of zealotry recorded in the Torah. He publicly kills Zimri and Kozbi, and as a reward he is elevated to the priesthood and granted a bris kehunas olam—an eternal covenant of priesthood.

Even Moshe Rabbeinu had momentarily forgotten the halachah that Pinchas remembered, compelling him to act.

Yet the critical point is this: Pinchas was not acting on his own.

At that moment, Pinchas had become a merkavah—a Divine chariot—channeling the attribute of kana’uson behalf of Hashem.

This was not the reaction of a man with a volatile temperament whose anger happened to erupt at an appropriate moment.

Had his actions contained even the slightest trace of personal rage, they could never have culminated in his becoming a Kohen—the very embodiment of love, kindness, and peace.

The bris kehunas olam bestowed upon Pinchas reveals that his zealotry was motivated not by anger, but by pure love and uncompromising devotion to truth.

I believe there is a unique Divine providence in Parshas Pinchas ushering in the Three Weeks.

Our Sages teach that when the Beis HaMikdash was destroyed, Hashem declared that He “poured out His wrath upon wood and stones rather than upon the Jewish people.”

Here too, Chazal reveal a remarkable irony.

They describe how, as the Beis HaMikdash was engulfed in flames, the Keruvim atop the Aron were embracing one another.

Ordinarily, the Keruvim embraced only when the Jewish people were fulfilling Hashem’s will. When they were not, they turned away from each other.

How then could they be embracing at the very moment of destruction?

The answer is that the destruction, despite all of its pain, sorrow, and devastation, was ultimately an act of Divine love rather than uncontrolled retribution.

This was not a moment in which Hashem, so to speak, lost control.

Quite the opposite.

He redirected His wrath away from His people and onto the Beis HaMikdash itself.

The destruction was painful precisely because it was an act of love.

This, I believe, serves as a fitting introduction to the subject of kana’us.

My late grandfather, Rabbi Nison Gordon, once attended a tisch of the Rabbi Yoel Teitelbaum in Belle Harbor during the summer of 1972. He later journaled about the experience in the Algemeiner Journal.

One line from that article has always stayed with me. In translation, he wrote:

“The great zealot is, up close, a quiet, mild, and friendly figure, maintaining his patriarchal bearing of former times.”

That observation appears near the beginning of the article.

Toward the end, after describing the atmosphere surrounding the Rebbe, my grandfather contrasts the fierce public reputation of the Satmar Rebbe with the person he encountered that Shabbos:

“Zealotry… fighting… these terms do not occur to you when you see the Satmar Rebbe in his role as a Rebbe.

“You do feel a twinge of regret that circumstances led to such a Jew being, so to speak, part of the opposition. But the scene unfolding before your eyes is that of a regal figure from the old world, surrounded by loyal attendants doing everything possible to preserve that world from disappearing.

“His face is pale, and he is tired after spending hours with the people, but his ‘A gutte voch‘ and his smile remain with you long after you walk through the quiet streets of prosperous Jewish Belle Harbor.

“Your spirit is lifted by a glimpse into an entire world across the ocean that has almost vanished, with only a few small islands remaining to preserve its memory.”

Just this past week, I mentioned the name of a contemporary tzaddik to a friend. He shrugged dismissively and remarked that another contemporary tzaddik did not see eye to eye with him.

I responded that all tzaddikim are connected, regardless of what may appear externally.

And that is precisely the point.

The relationships between tzaddikim—and the manner in which they may sometimes oppose one another—are not our concern.

Within Chabad there is a well-known expression: “A rebbeishe inyan.’ There are matters that belong to a Rebbe and are not for a chossid to imitate in his everyday conduct.

Perhaps this is what my grandfather was hinting at.

Much of the Satmar Rebbe’s reputation as a fierce fighter was amplified by followers who, in many instances, removed his positions from their proper context or carried them much further than he himself embodied them.

Pinchas was rewarded precisely because authentic zealotry demands extraordinary self-sacrifice. It requires the impossible ability to act with absolute firmness while remaining completely free of personal anger. Very few people are capable of embodying such a contradiction.

As we enter these solemn weeks leading toward Tishah B’Av, that distinction is worth remembering.

The mourning, sadness, and sense of loss are not expressions of Divine rejection.

They are expressions of Divine love.

How love can reveal itself through burning buildings, exile, and tears is ultimately beyond human comprehension.

Perhaps only Hashem can reconcile that paradox.

Or perhaps only one who has become, like Pinchas, a true merkavah for the Divine will can begin to understand how perfect love can sometimes wear the appearance of judgment. 

Yochanan Gordon can be reached at [email protected]. Read more of Yochanan’s articles at 5TJT.com.