בס”ד

A THOUGHT ABOUT PARSHAT PINCHAS 5786

In Book of Numbers Parshat Pinchas, the Torah records a striking detail. After describing Pinchas’ act of stopping the plague, the Torah reveals the names of those involved:

“The name of the Israelite man… Zimri son of Salu…”
“The name of the Midianite woman… Cozbi daughter of Tzur…”
— Numbers 25:14–15

At first glance, this raises a fundamental question: why does the Torah preserve their names at all, and why only after the episode?

The commentators suggest that the Torah is teaching several layered lessons through this choice. Broadly speaking, the preservation of their names serves three purposes:
(1) to highlight the greatness of Pinchas,
(2) to show the communal impact of public sin,
(3) and to expose the danger of hypocrisy disguised as morality.

The Greatness of Pinchas

Zimri was not an ordinary man. According to Rashi on Numbers 25:14:2, he was a nasi, a prince and leader within the tribe of Shimon. Cozbi was likewise no ordinary woman; she was the daughter of Tzur, one of the prominent Midianite rulers.

The Torah reveals their identities to show the enormous risk Pinchas took. He did not confront powerless individuals. He stood against influential figures with status, political power, and powerful families behind them.

Da’at Zekenim on Numbers 25:15:1 emphasizes the same point. Pinchas understood perfectly well that killing a Midianite princess could carry severe political consequences, yet he did not hesitate when the honor of Hashem was being desecrated.

The Torah is therefore not interested in sensationalizing the sin. It is revealing the identities of these people in order to highlight the courage, clarity, and mesirut nefesh of Pinchas.

Sin Never Stays Private

But the Torah is not only highlighting the courage of Pinchas.

Rabbeinu Bahya on Numbers 25:14:1 explains that when a person publicly disgraces himself, he also brings disgrace upon his family. That is why the Torah records not only “Zimri,” but “Zimri son of Salu,” and not only “Cozbi,” but “Cozbi daughter of Tzur.”

Human beings never exist entirely in isolation. Actions ripple outward into families, communities, and generations.

Regarding Cozbi, the commentators reveal another layer. Rashi on Numbers 25:15:1 says that the Torah names her in order to demonstrate the depth of Midian’s hatred toward Israel. They were willing to sacrifice even a princess in order to spiritually corrupt the Jewish people.

Rabbeinu Bahya on Numbers 25:15:1 similarly stresses that this hatred ran so deep that a king’s daughter was used as a weapon of seduction and destruction.

The Sin of Hypocrisy

Perhaps the most timeless insight comes from the Kli Yakar on Numbers 25:14:4.

He asks why Chazal portray Zimri as the ultimate example of hypocrisy. After all, Zimri appeared to be an open sinner.

But that was precisely the issue.

Zimri did not merely sin; he attempted to justify his behavior with religious language. He approached Moshe with halachic arguments, asking whether the woman was permitted or forbidden.

According to the Kli Yakar, this was the true tragedy — not only the sin itself, but the attempt to dress rebellion in the language of legitimacy.

That is why Chazal famously say:

“They perform the act of Zimri while demanding the reward of Pinchas.”

This makes the story painfully relevant today. Not everything packaged in the language of morality, justice, or idealism is genuinely pure. Sometimes people use moral language to grant legitimacy to desires or hatreds they have already embraced internally.

When Hatred Disguises Itself as Virtue

This lesson remains deeply relevant in our generation.

Not every movement presented as “justice” is necessarily driven by justice alone. The Kli Yakar teaches how dangerous it becomes when deeper motives are hidden beneath moral or religious rhetoric. Zimri did not simply want to sin; he wanted his actions validated.

We see similar dynamics today. Genuine concern for human suffering certainly exists and should never be dismissed. But at the same time, we also see how obsessive hostility toward Israel often crosses standards never applied to any other nation or conflict.

Ancient antisemitism frequently reappears clothed in the language of human rights, activism, and moral superiority.

The Torah therefore teaches us not only to listen to slogans, but to examine the deeper motivations behind movements and rhetoric. Sometimes hatred disguises itself as virtue — precisely the phenomenon the Kli Yakar identifies in Zimri: rebellion presented as righteousness.

Why Pinchas Was Different

Here the teaching of the Nesivos Shalom (he was a chassidische rebbe) ( Gems From the Nesivos Shalom The SeidenFeld Edition, by Rabbi S. Binyomin Ginsberg   p. 374 -p. 378 ) becomes especially powerful.

He asks why this particular sin is treated with such extraordinary severity. Other grave sins are judged through the courts, yet here the Torah states:

“Kana’im pog’in bo” — zealots may strike him.

The Nesivos Shalom explains that Zimri’s act was not merely a private failing. It was a public rebellion against the holiness of Klal Yisrael. The danger lay not only in the act itself, but in the message it sent. When leaders openly destroy boundaries and seek to justify doing so, entire generations can be affected.

The people cried at the entrance of the Ohel Mo’ed, but according to the Nesivos Shalom, tears alone were insufficient. Pinchas alone fully grasped what was at stake.

His response came with total mesirut nefesh — not from anger or fanaticism, but מתוך קנאה לה׳, from absolute loyalty to Hashem.

A Message That Still Echoes Today

Perhaps that is ultimately why the Torah preserves these names. Because in many ways, human society still functions in a similar way.

Moral language can be used sincerely, but it can also be applied selectively or inconsistently. At times, certain forms of injustice are strongly emphasized, while other forms of suffering receive far less attention. And at other times, underlying emotions or historical tensions can shape how moral issues are framed, even without people being fully aware of it.

There are many discussions and demonstrations surrounding the Israeli–Palestinian conflict. There are people who are genuinely concerned about Palestinian suffering and speak from a place of compassion, often without realizing that their perspective may be shaped by a media that presents a one-sided narrative — one that does not fully highlight Israeli suffering and does not always show how much of the ongoing suffering is also the result of Palestinian actions.

Jewish history reminds us that antisemitism has often reappeared in new words, new language, and within new moral or political frameworks that present themselves as purely ethical or humanitarian. This is a painful but important reality to recognize.

The story of Pinchas raises a deeper question: whether moral language is being applied honestly and consistently — and what responsibility remains when truth becomes blurred and moral confusion is no longer clearly recognized as such.




By Angelique Sijbolts
With thanks to Rabbi Tani Burton


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