Parashat Pinchas: Between Destruction and Hope - A Shabbat of Memory and Light

The Hebrew calendar, during these days, is steeped in mourning. We have entered the period known as Bein HaMetzarim—the "Three Weeks" of sorrow between the 17th of Tammuz and the 9th of Av—days that mark the destruction of Jerusalem. These are three weeks of physical and spiritual devastation, during which the observant Jew is shaken to the core, recalling the stinging blows of the past and feeling, as if on the skin, the age-old wounds of our people. 

Our Parashah begins with the controversial act of the priest Pinchas, who halts a deadly plague ravaging the People of Israel by striking down, with a spear, a couple engaged in public intercourse—an Israelite man and a Moabite woman sent by King Balak to seduce and morally weaken a people that, until then, seemed invincible precisely because of their unity around God and the sacred law they had just received.

And now, in the midst of this painful season, called Bein HaMetzarim, and right after this act of violence and the end of the plague, we open the Torah and find... a festive tone. Only two Torah portions recount all of Israel’s holidays: Parashat Emor (in Leviticus), and the one we read this week: Parashat Pinchas.

Any sensitive reader would pause and wonder:

Why such joy in the midst of tragedy? Why speak of festivals during days of national grief?

Perhaps the answer lies not in contradiction, but in truth. The Torah here gives us a remarkably accurate picture of real life. Life is rarely black or white. Moments of overwhelming joy or unbearable pain are few and far between. Most of our days are painted in shades of gray—a constant blend of heartache and celebration. On the one hand, we carry the painful memory of destruction and the sorrow of a people wandering toward the Promised Land. On the other hand, we are invited to rejoice in the festivals that once lit up our radiant Jerusalem.

Maybe the Torah is trying to teach us something vital: That even amid sorrow and despair, the sun can rise again. That even in times of tragedy, there is room for hope. That we must remember the festivals because they remind us of what was, and what can be again.

As the prophet Zechariah declared: "Thus says the Lord of Hosts: The fasts of the fourth, fifth, seventh, and tenth months shall become days of joy and gladness and cheerful feasts for the house of Judah..." (Zechariah 8:19)

Today is Friday, July 18th. I find myself in Buenos Aires, Argentina, attending the commemoration of the terrorist attack on the AMIA, the Jewish community center, 31 years ago. In just a few minutes, I’ll head out to participate in the central ceremony—an event that, heartbreakingly, draws fewer and fewer people each year.

Eighty-five lives were lost. Senseless hatred, religious extremism, and sheer barbarity exploded in a country that, historically, had stood far from the global stage of terrorism. And still, justice has not been served. The perpetrators remain free, and the families of the victims still cry out for a judgment that refuses to come.

It has been 651 days since October 7, 2023. Fifty people remain in captivity in Gaza. History continues to reopen our wounds. Antisemitism grows. Hate speech spreads. And our very souls tremble.

So, can we truly find the spirit to rejoice?

The Torah says yes. It teaches us that by clinging to our tradition and our story, we may uncover, in even the smallest moments of joy, the strength to carry on—and the power to build a more just world.

Indeed, Parashat Pinchas is not just about violence and zealotry. Woven into its verses is another story—quieter, but equally powerful. The story of five sisters: Machlah, Noa, Hoglah, Milkah, and Tirzah, daughters of Tzelofchad. Orphaned, and without brothers, they stand before Moses and the entire assembly and challenge the law that excluded women from inheriting land.

With courage and dignity, they raise their voices, and the law is changed. Their bravery becomes Torah.

They teach us that even in the darkest times, a bold word can pierce injustice. That faith is not passive surrender—it is active commitment. That memory is not only about the past, but also a call to reshape the present.

Pain. Justice. Courage. Joy.

These are the threads that bind our story.

And so, this Shabbat, in the midst of so much accumulated sorrow, we choose to light the candles as an act of resistance.

We choose to uphold hope as our legacy. We choose to name the absent as a promise of life.

May this be a Shabbat of comfort, of luminous memory, and of shared strength. May the hostages return home. May peace come to Israel, and the soldiers return swiftly to their families. May justice no longer be delayed.

May God help us open our eyes—to discover joy, to seek balance in a world so often cruel and unforgiving—and to see the beauty and blessings that are hidden from view only because we have forgotten how to look for them.

Shabbat Shalom.

Rabbi Gustavo Geier