There are always two unseen guests at every bris — neither of whom ever gets an invitation, and both of whom probably wouldn’t RSVP even if we sent one. But their presence is felt nonetheless. One is Elijah — the beloved and expected one. The chair we set aside for him isn’t just a quaint tradition. It’s a bold reminder that covenant is never just about the past. It’s about the promise of a future. The other guest? He’s not quite so cuddly. His name is Pinchas — and he doesn’t get a chair. He gets a spear. And frankly, if he showed up unannounced at your next family simcha, most of us would probably call security.
And yet… every bris includes the passage from this week’s parasha, where God makes a covenant of peace with Pinchas:
“Pinchas son of Elazar, the son of Aharon the priest, turned back My wrath from upon the Children of Israel when he zealously avenged Me among them… therefore I grant him My covenant of peace.” — Numbers 25:11–13
What an odd text to recite at a baby’s circumcision. Couldn’t we go with something lighter? Maybe something about Abraham holding baby Isaac with soft lighting and a harp in the background?
But no — it’s Pinchas. Zealot. Avenger. Spear-wielding priest. The Torah doesn’t shy away from the tension, and neither should we.
Why Pinchas? Why Here? Why Now?
We meet Pinchas at the end of last week’s parasha, Balak. The nation of Israel, under divine protection, could not be cursed by Balaam — no matter how much Balak paid him. So Balaam, ever the creative villain, suggested another tactic: corrupt them from within. Send the Moabite and Midianite women, entice the men, compromise the leadership. And it worked. Zimri, a prince of Israel, publicly cohabits with a Midianite woman named Cozbi — not only an act of immorality, but a political defiance of Moses and the Torah itself. Enter Pinchas. Without being asked, without due process, he acts. Spear in hand, he kills them both, ending the plague and turning away divine wrath.
Now — let’s be honest — Pinchas is not someone you’d want as your synagogue president. His actions were outside the law. They were extreme. And yet… God commends him. This is not to suggest that we imitate his violence — chas v’shalom. Rather, the Torah presents Pinchas as a man of passion so profound that he is willing to act decisively for the sake of holiness, even at great personal cost. And therein lies the message. Pinchas teaches us that covenant is not casual. That identity, when it is sacred, must sometimes be defended — and always be lived with fire.
What Are We Willing to Risk?
When we welcome a child into the covenant at a bris, we are not simply giving them a Hebrew name and a ceremonial welcome. We are placing them on a path — one that is ancient, sacred, and not always easy. And the question that haunts that moment is not just, Will this child be safe? — but also, Will this child be faithful? Will they live a life worthy of the covenant? And deeper still — will we? We live in a generation that fears zeal. We’ve seen too much of its abuses. We’ve learned to be suspicious of passion. But what about apathy? What about indifference? Today, we are not losing Jews to pogroms. We are losing them to disinterest. There is a spiritual epidemic not of persecution, but of forgetting. Many are born Jewish and never learn what it means. Others leave Judaism not out of rejection, but because they were never given a compelling reason to stay.That is the threat I fear most — the slow fading of passion, the quiet erosion of covenant.
Pinchas and Elijah: Zeal and Hope
Pinchas and Elijah are spiritually linked — so much so that both midrashic and mystical sources suggest that Pinchas became Elijah. This idea appears in Bamidbar Rabbah and is expanded in the Zohar, where their connection is seen spiritually, or even mystically, as the same soul continuing across generations. Both figures are marked by passionate commitment, a willingness to stand alone, and an unflinching zeal for God’s holiness.
Yet over time, there is a transformation — from spear to whisper, from fire to stillness. And this matters deeply.
We remember the story of Elijah on Mount Horeb, hiding in a cave, desperate for God’s reassurance. There is wind — tearing at the mountains. Then an earthquake. Then fire. But God is not in any of those. Finally, there is kol d’mamah dakah — a still, small voice. And only then does Elijah wrap his face in his cloak.
The message is clear: the Lord can break mountains and shake the earth, but His truest presence is often discerned in the quiet and the gentle. Elijah responds not to the dramatic, but to the intimate — the voice that speaks not to the ears, but to the soul. It is rarely the brazen or vociferous that exemplify godly action, but rather the quiet, the spiritual, the unassuming. The Spirit of God is the voice to our innermost being — a presence that melts the heart rather than hardening it. Sternness hardens; love alone melts. Miracles may ring like a great bell through the fabric of nature, but the Spirit is God’s personal whisper to the soul.
This same spirit — the passion of Pinchas, matured through Elijah — continued through the generations. Yochanan the Immerser came “in the spirit and power of Elijah,” calling Israel to repentance and preparing the way for Messiah. In every age, this spirit reemerges — bold, refining, and prophetic — reminding us that covenant is not only inherited, but must be reawakened.
This does not mean there are no moments that call for bold and deliberate action — Pinchas shows us there are. But most often, true heroism is as quiet and unassuming as the small, still voice that inspires it. And this is our calling: to live in that sacred tension — between courage and compassion, between fire and whisper. Between the boldness to act and the humility to listen.
A Vision for Messianic Judaism
Messianic Judaism cannot be a spiritual costume — a kind of Hebrew-flavored Christianity. Nor can it simply be “Judaism plus Jesus.” It must be something deeper, more authentic. A true return. A rebuilding of the house of Israel with Yeshua at the center — not as an intruder, but as the Cornerstone.
We dream of a community where Jewish life is not a performance but a way of being. Where we wear tzitzit not to prove a point, but to remember the mitzvot. Where our children grow up saying the Shema with conviction and singing Modeh Ani with joy. Where Yeshua is not only our personal savior but the Redeemer of AlI Israel.
And at the heart of that vision is a deep truth: Judaism is more than ethnicity, and more than religion. It is a peoplehood — even a civilization — shaped by Torah, forged through history, and carried forward in covenant. This is the meaning behind Ruth’s words: “Your people shall be my people, and your God my God.” It is not just about belief, but about belonging — about becoming part of a people with a sacred story and an eternal calling.
This kind of faith takes more than belief. It takes passion. It takes people willing to be like Pinchas — not violent, but unafraid. Not reckless, but courageous. People who love this faith enough to live it fully, and pass it on.
Carrying the Fire
In the end, we come back to the bris. A child is brought into the covenant. Elijah is seated. Pinchas hovers, silently.
And we must ask: What kind of faith are we passing on?
Will our children see in us a faith that is alive, passionate, and rooted? Will they see that we are not afraid to stand for holiness, even when it’s hard? Will they see a community that knows how to carry both the fire and the whisper?
May we be that people.
May we carry the fire of Pinchas and the hope of Elijah.
May we raise up a Messianic Judaism that is bold, beautiful, and worthy of the covenant.
And may the One who is coming — the Son of David, the pierced One — find us ready, passionate, and awake.