Parshat Pinchas: The Courage to Lead with Love — What Real Leadership Looks Like at Home

I. When No One Else Moves — Pinchas and the Lonely Stand

There are moments in life when everything feels like it’s unraveling—and no one is doing anything about it. The lines are blurred, the values unclear, and the people who are supposed to act are silent. That’s the backdrop of Parshat Pinchas. After witnessing a public breakdown in moral boundaries, Pinchas doesn’t wait for consensus. He doesn’t check who’s watching. He stands up, alone, and does what he believes is right. In a moment of chaos, he restores clarity.

It’s easy to focus on the intensity of Pinchas’s act. But what deserves even more attention is the emotional reality of what it means to stand up when others are frozen. It’s lonely. It’s vulnerable. And it doesn’t come with applause. In fact, Rashi (Bamidbar 25:11) tells us that many mocked Pinchas, questioning his lineage and sincerity. “Look at this grandson of Yitro,” they said—implying his boldness came from arrogance, not holiness. But Hashem saw something different. He saw someone willing to absorb misunderstanding in order to protect what was sacred.

It’s tempting to look at Pinchas and see only strength. To use his story as proof that leadership means drawing hard lines, holding firm, and refusing compromise. Many parents or educators reach for this model and say: This is what it means to protect our values — to clamp down, to never yield, to guard the walls of the home at all costs.

But the Torah’s response to Pinchas is surprising. God doesn’t glorify aggression. He gives him a brit shalom—a covenant of peace. Why? Because true leadership isn’t about reacting forcefully. It’s about responding faithfully. It’s not about hardness. It’s about holy responsibility. As the Netivot Shalom teaches, Pinchas earned this covenant not through separation, but by restoring brokenness with compassion at its root.

The Sfas Emes (Pinchas 5641) teaches that Pinchas acted not from personal passion, but from emunah peshutah—a quiet, unwavering faith. True leadership, he writes, is never loud. It rises from inner stillness and moral clarity, even when the world is screaming confusion. And the Zohar (Pinchas 219a) adds that Pinchas’s courage reconnected Heaven and Earth. His action didn’t divide—it repaired.

And that’s what the rest of the parsha is about.

It’s not a parsha of zealotry. It’s a parsha of leadership. Of inclusion. Of presence. Of steadiness through seasons of change. From the courage of the daughters of Tzelafchad, to Moshe’s humble request for a successor, to the census that counts every soul, and the korbanot that bring structure to the year—Parshat Pinchas unfolds a much fuller vision of what it means to protect something sacred. It begins with one bold act. But it matures into something far more powerful: attuned, enduring, compassionate leadership.

For many parents, that moment of standing alone feels achingly familiar. No one sees the quiet decisions behind the scenes. The moment you take away a harmful device. The time you hold the line on Shabbat. The day you say no to a party, or walk away from a therapist who doesn’t understand your values. From the outside, it might look rigid. To your teen, it might feel like rejection. But inside, it comes from love—a fierce desire to protect your child and your home from falling into a space where nothing is sacred.

There’s a particular ache in being the one who takes a stand—not out of anger, but out of love. Especially in a culture that calls everything “normal,” that blurs values and scoffs at boundaries. And especially when the child you’re trying to protect is pushing you away the hardest. You know it may cost you. You may be called extreme, overprotective, outdated. And still—you act.

Because parenting, like prophecy, isn’t always popular. It’s not always clear or comfortable. But the defining moment comes when you know it might cost you—and you choose to protect anyway.

That’s what it means to lead with love. That’s what it means to stand with Hashem.

II. Bnos Tzelafchad — When Your Child Challenges the System with Heart

If Pinchas teaches us about the courage to act when no one else does, the daughters of Tzelafchad teach us something quieter, but just as profound: the courage to speak up when no one else dares. They don’t rebel. They don’t protest with anger. They approach Moshe and the leaders with clarity, respect, and an unshakable sense of justice. Their father died in the desert with no sons, and they ask—why should our family lose its portion in the Land because we are daughters?

It’s not a demand. It’s a plea for dignity. And it changes the law forever.

What makes their approach so powerful is not just what they said, but how they said it. They didn’t scream to be heard. They spoke with conviction and presence. And Moshe listened. Not only that—he didn’t answer on his own. He brought their case before God. He admitted he didn’t know.

That is leadership. And that, too, is parenting.

The Midrash Tanchuma (Pinchas 9) teaches that the daughters of Tzelafchad were wise and righteous—and that “their eyes saw what the eyes of Moshe did not see.” Their challenge wasn’t a rejection of the system. It was a revelation from within it. They saw a gap in justice that no one else had seen, and they voiced it with both courage and humility.

Rav Tzadok HaKohen adds a deeper layer: when a soul carries a unique spark, it will often push to reveal its truth in the world. That inner spiritual tension—when not yet understood—can look like resistance. But sometimes it’s actually a form of prophecy. Of moral clarity pressing through emotional friction. A soul trying to be heard.

Not every time our child pushes back is it a rebellion. Sometimes, it’s revelation. Sometimes, it’s our child developing their own sense of values, fairness, and voice—and trying to find out if we’ll listen. If we’ll take their inner world seriously. If we’re willing not just to teach, but to learn.

It’s easy to see a child’s resistance as defiance. But sometimes the challenge is not to our authority—it’s to our assumptions. A teenager questioning a family rule, expressing hurt about how something was handled, or wanting to be seen in a new way isn’t always rejecting their parents. They’re asking to be included in the conversation of life. They’re asking: Do I matter here? Does my voice count?

The answer isn’t always to agree. But it must begin with listening.

Moshe could have dismissed the daughters of Tzelafchad. He could have quoted precedent or pushed them away. Instead, he paused. He asked Hashem. He honored their question with humility. That’s what attuned leadership looks like—not certainty, but curiosity. Not dominance, but discernment.

As parents, we don’t lose our authority when we listen—we deepen it. We show our children that strength doesn’t mean shutting them down. It means staying open enough to grow alongside them. That the strongest voice in the room isn’t the loudest—but the one willing to hear something new.

Because sometimes, the very child who challenges us is the one carrying a deeper truth we haven’t yet seen.

III. The Census — Every Soul Still Counts

Parshat Pinchas opens with an act of violence—but it quickly moves toward something quieter and more profound: a census. After a national breakdown, a public plague, and the deep moral confusion that marked the end of Parshat Balak, Hashem tells Moshe to count the people. Every tribe. Every family. Every name.

Why now?

Because when a nation has been shaken—when loss, fear, and chaos have taken hold—the first step in healing is to remember that every soul still matters. The act of counting is more than record-keeping. It’s a spiritual declaration: You still belong. You still matter. You are still part of us.

The Kli Yakar (Bamidbar 26:2) explains that this census was conducted by families in order to restore dignity and lineage after a time of rupture. Even after rebellion and loss, each name was honored again. Each family was re-rooted in identity. And the Tiferet Shlomo adds that to be counted is to be seen through the lens of Divine love—each soul revealing its unique light in the collective story of Am Yisrael.

For parents walking through a crisis with their child, this message is essential. There are moments when a parent looks across the room—or maybe looks at a bedroom door that never opens—and thinks, I don’t know who my child is anymore. Their choices confuse us. Their pain scares us. Their distance breaks our hearts.

And yet. They are still ours.

This section of the Parsha gently reminds us: You don’t stop counting someone just because they’re struggling. You don’t erase a soul because they’re angry, lost, or spiritually distant. In fact, it’s precisely when they feel furthest that they most need to be seen. To be included. To be counted.

There’s a reason the Torah organizes this census by mishpachot—by families. Because that’s where identity is most deeply rooted. That’s where healing begins. Even when a child is unrecognizable on the surface, they remain part of the home’s foundation. We may not always know how to reach them. But we must never stop reminding them that they are not invisible.

Parents often ask, “What if I don’t know how to connect anymore?” The answer begins here—with a quiet act of emotional inclusion. We say with our eyes, our tone, our presence: You are still in this family. You still have a place. I haven’t stopped counting you.

Because unconditional love doesn’t mean we accept everything our child does. It means we never stop seeing who they are—even when they can’t yet see it themselves.

IV. Moshe’s Request for a Successor — Leadership With Heart

After a lifetime of leading, teaching, and carrying the weight of a people through fire and wilderness, Moshe faces the end of his role. He won’t be the one to enter the Land. And so he turns to God with a single, quiet request: Appoint someone to lead them. Someone who will go out before them and come in before them. Someone who will not leave them like sheep without a shepherd.

It’s a remarkable moment. Moshe doesn’t ask for a military strategist, a charismatic speaker, or a miracle worker. He asks for something deeper. Someone who will stay close. Someone whose leadership is not defined by brilliance or authority, but by presence. Someone who will never leave the people emotionally orphaned.

Rashi (Bamidbar 27:16) explains that Moshe was asking for a leader who could connect to da’ato shel kol echad v’echad—the unique mind and heart of each individual. Not a one-size-fits-all ruler, but a shepherd of souls. And the Noam Elimelech adds that true leadership must be grounded in rachamim—compassion born of deep, spiritual awareness. Leadership that flows not from control, but from connection.

And in doing so, Moshe gives us one of the clearest definitions of what real leadership is—especially in the home.

Because when our child is struggling, it’s easy to assume we’re failing as parents if we don’t have the answers. If we can’t “fix it.” If we’re unsure of what to say or do next. But Moshe doesn’t model authority—he models presence. And Hashem affirms that choice by appointing Yehoshua—is that the most important quality in leadership is not brilliance. It’s devotion. A willingness to walk with someone through confusion and transition without walking away.

For a parent, that means this: Your job is not to be perfect. It’s to be present.

We live in a world that confuses leadership with control. But a struggling child doesn’t need to be controlled. They need to be accompanied. They need a parent who says, You may not know where you’re going right now—but you’re not going there alone.

When a child feels broken, lost, or disconnected, they don’t need more lectures. They need to know that someone is still holding on. That they’re still being shepherded, even if gently, even if from a distance. This is where the essay shifts—where the strength of Pinchas must be balanced by the softness of Moshe. Where the courage to act is joined with the compassion to stay.

Because parenting isn’t about enforcing a position of authority. It’s about being the one person your child can count on to keep showing up—even when they push you away.

That’s not weakness. That’s heart. And in the Torah’s vision, that’s leadership.

V. The Offerings of the Holidays — Sacred Consistency Amid Change

After the drama of leadership transitions and generational reckoning, Parshat Pinchas shifts into a long and detailed description of korbanot—the additional offerings brought on Shabbat and during each holiday of the year. It’s easy to read this section as a break in the narrative. But in truth, it holds one of the Parsha’s most powerful parenting lessons.

Each holiday evokes a different spiritual and emotional state. Pesach is freedom. Rosh Hashanah is awe. Yom Kippur is forgiveness. Sukkot is joy. Life, like the Jewish calendar, is never emotionally static. There are days of celebration and days of fear, moments of clarity and seasons of confusion. No single emotional posture lasts forever.

And yet, through all of this change, one thing remains: the offering. The korban. The quiet, sacred act of showing up.

That’s what parenting is.

Our teens move through shifting emotional landscapes. There are days of lightness and connection—and days that feel impenetrable. There are seasons of hope and periods of deep, painful uncertainty. And as parents, we are invited into all of them—not as perfect performers, but as steady presences. We bring ourselves, again and again, not to fix, but to offer.

The Sforno (Bamidbar 28:2) explains that these offerings were commanded daily and throughout the festivals to root the people in constancy. The world may shift. Our spiritual state may change. But the act of korban—of drawing close—remains a constant invitation. It’s not about what you bring. It’s that you keep bringing it.

The Kedushat Levi adds that every soul carries its own inner korban tamid—a steady yearning to return to relationship with Hashem. Even when we feel far. Even when we can’t articulate it. The offering is already there, pulsing within us. We just need to show up.

The Torah’s structure reminds us: while the offerings themselves shift in size and type, the rhythm never breaks. There is always a place on the altar. Always a way to express presence. That constancy, even amid change, is what creates spiritual safety. And the same is true in the emotional world of our homes.

Our task isn’t to be the same every day. It’s to be present in each moment with integrity. There are times we’ll need to hold boundaries. Times we’ll need to soften. Times to grieve, to wait, to guide, to surrender. But the core message never changes: I’m here. I’m with you. You are not alone.

Like the korban tamid—the daily offering that never ceased, no matter the season—parental love must be consistent even when the circumstances aren’t. Especially when they aren’t.

Because more than any one moment of brilliance or strength, what heals a child is knowing: My parent keeps coming back. No matter what day it is. No matter how far I’ve gone. They don’t walk away.

VI. Closing Reflection — Attuned Leadership: The True Legacy of Pinchas and Moshe

Parshat Pinchas is often remembered for its bold beginning—a dramatic act of courage that restores moral clarity. But when we follow the full arc of the parsha, a deeper pattern emerges. We move from zeal to inclusion, from crisis to counting, from leadership transitions to the rhythm of daily presence. And we begin to see: this parsha isn’t just about courage. It’s about attuned leadership—the kind that sees each soul, listens to hard truths, stays close in uncertainty, and shows up with sacred consistency.

Pinchas acts with strength. The daughters of Tzelafchad speak with conviction. Moshe leads with humility. Yehoshua is chosen for his ability to walk among the people, not above them. And the korbanot ground it all in a daily rhythm of presence, regardless of the emotional landscape.

The Zohar (Pinchas 219a) says that Pinchas’s act healed a rupture between Heaven and Earth. His reward, the brit shalom, was not just for what he did—but for what he repaired. The Netivot Shalom teaches that this covenant of peace was born not of separation, but of compassion. Pinchas restored connection by refusing to abandon what was sacred, even when it came at great personal cost. That’s what transforms boldness into holiness.

Together, they teach us what it means to lead a family.

It means having the courage to act when no one else will—and the humility to listen when your child pushes back with something you didn’t expect to hear.

It means counting every soul—even the ones who are hurting, distant, or struggling to stay part of the family story.

It means staying in the role of shepherd—not because you have control, but because your child needs to know they still have someone walking with them, even in the dark.

And it means showing up, again and again, not because it’s easy, but because it’s holy.

Parents often worry: Am I doing enough? Am I failing them? Should I be stronger, softer, different? This parsha gently reframes the question. It’s not about being strong or soft. It’s about being attuned. Knowing when to hold the line like Pinchas, and when to pause like Moshe. When to lead, and when to make space. When to challenge—and when to simply stay close.

That’s the real legacy of leadership in Parshat Pinchas.

And that’s the quiet, sacred work of parenting: to lead without losing connection. To protect without closing your heart. To show your child, in every season of life, that you are not going anywhere.

A Father waiting up for their teenager to come home.