A few years ago, I heard the following story from Rabbi Shimon Druck (may he live and be well), one of the Rebbe's emissaries in Detroit, Michigan. I hope I am not mistaken in any of the details, because Rabbi Shimon is well known as a master storyteller who is meticulous about the accuracy of every detail he recounts.
Someone (perhaps Rabbi Shimon himself) once approached the chassid Rabbi Heshel Zeitlin of blessed memory and asked him for advice on raising children—one piece of advice that would apply broadly.
Rabbi Heshel Zeitlin of Montreal was renowned among Chabad chassidim as a deeply sincere and authentic chassid, a man who had absolutely no connection to falsehood or pretense.
Rabbi Heshel felt uncomfortable being asked such a question, as though to say, "Who am I to give such advice?" Yet he was a man of complete acceptance of G-d's will (*kabbalat ol*), so he answered immediately, clearly, and simply:
"Zog zey dem emes" — "Tell them the truth."
This week I was interviewed for a podcast on Parshat Pinchas by Lior and Vanessa Sachs Sagi. I did not know them beforehand and had no idea what to expect. But when Lior asked me about Pinchas' zealotry, I suddenly realized something I had never fully appreciated before.
At the core of Pinchas' act of zealotry stood a clear recognition of the truth, followed by the willingness to stand up for that truth—and, in his unique case, to act upon it with extraordinary zeal.
I am not advocating acts of zealotry.
As a general rule, before we do anything—including anything we write or say—we should ask ourselves: What is the worst possible outcome of this action? Only then should we weigh whether what we are about to do is worth the risk.
For example, someone who decides to write something critical about another person—even with the noble intention of "improving the world"—must honestly consider the best possible outcome alongside the worst possible damage it may cause, and decide whether the gain truly justifies the risk. If not—and in my opinion, even if there is serious doubt—it is usually better to remain silent.
An act of zealotry is so extreme that it is almost impossible to justify the potential harm for the sake of the possible benefit.
Pinchas was Pinchas.
I am not Pinchas.
And most likely, neither are you.
Yet there is something profound we can learn from the foundation of his actions. The central motivation behind what he did is something we should strive to bring into our own lives. In my humble opinion, that foundation was the pursuit of truth.
The truth is rarely easy to hear. People generally do not enjoy hearing painful truths. Yet sometimes there is simply no alternative.
This is where the Torah and Rashi's commentary become so meaningful. The Torah says:
"Pinchas, the son of Elazar, the son of Aaron the Kohen, turned away My wrath..."
Rashi, quoting the Talmud (Sanhedrin), explains that the tribes mocked Pinchas and questioned his motives. Therefore, the Torah deliberately traces his lineage back to Aaron.
In other words, those around him assumed he acted out of an aggressive personality or a natural tendency toward fanaticism. The Torah therefore reminds us that he descended from Aaron—the man who "loved peace and pursued peace."
The lesson is powerful.
When we feel compelled to speak the truth—and if you ask me, we are obligated to speak the truth—we must do so with the right timing, the right tone, and carefully chosen words. We must first refine our own character and approach the conversation with genuine humility. We must make sure that the person before us is emotionally capable of hearing what we have to say.
Only after all of that should we speak the truth.
But there is one essential condition:
Before you speak, make absolutely certain that, at that very moment, you are "traced back to Aaron the Kohen"—that your words are coming from someone who truly loves peace and pursues peace.
If you do that, your words will enter the other person's heart. Perhaps not immediately. Perhaps not even that day. But they will enter.
If, however, your words do not genuinely come from a place of love and peace, they will most likely be rejected, and you may well achieve the exact opposite of what you intended.
This applies to every person and every relationship, but first and foremost within our own homes.
It is important to tell our spouse the truth.
It is important to tell our children the truth.
But it must always come from the heart of someone who "loves peace and pursues peace."
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Zalman Wishedski