There has been much attention recently paid to “horseshoe” phenomenon as it pertains to antisemitism, as the point where the far-right and far-left converge to almost jointly express their virulent hostility to all things Jewish. Parshat Matos indirectly highlights where that horseshoe might manifest from inside our community, two internal battles that the Israelites were fighting within their own camp: one against the “As-a-Jews,” exemplified by Zimri, and one against the “Only Jews,” exemplified by the spies (meraglim).
In 1997, Sephardic Chief Rabbi Eliyahu Bakshi-Doron caused a firestorm when he suggested Zimri was the first “Reform Jew.” Whether or not that label was appropriate, a more accurate statement would have been that Zimri was the first “As-a-Jew” of the post-desert generation: a rebel who cloaked his actions in religious justification.
Indeed, signs of “As-a-Jew” behavior predate Zimri. Much of the rebellion and unrest during the wilderness years were attributed to the Erev Rav (mixed multitude), whose Jewish lineage was uncertain; but consider the “native” “As-a-Jew” hall of fame: the spies (meraglim), Korach, Datan (especially his audacious retort to Moshe in Shemos after Moshe had saved him), and even Bilaam—who, though not Jewish, trafficked heavily in Jewish themes and famously declared a desire to “die the death of the righteous.”
Zimri, however, takes the crown: his rebellion was uniquely cloaked in religious language. As recorded in Sanhedrin 82b, he challenges Moshe: “Is this woman forbidden to me when you married a Midianite yourself?” Later, with his tribe guarding him, Zimri brazenly brings Cozbi into his tent. Pinchas approaches under the guise of joining in, tricking Zimri’s guards. They proclaim, “Even the religious ones [prushim] now permit it!”—a clear indication that this act was couched not as rebellion against Judaism, but as an expression of Judaism.
This is what makes Zimri the paradigmatic “As-a-Jew.” He didn’t just sin—he claimed his sin was Torah. He misappropriated Judaism to justify treason. And that’s a pattern still visible today—not just among those with denominational disagreements, but among those who use the language of Torah to justify siding with our enemies. We could— and should— name names: even just in New York—Nadler, Schumer, Lander, any Mamdani voter—and many more who mask their betrayal as religious or moral imperative (Jews for ____, Jewish Voice for _____, Rabbis for _____ etc).
Meanwhile, at the other end of the horseshoe, one might argue that certain ultra-Orthodox factions today, who continue to demand blanket exemptions from army service, reflect a theological hybrid of the meraglim—insisting that their specific lifestyle of Torah learning is too spiritually pure to be disrupted by national responsibility, as the true pillar of the existence of the nation—and the biryonim, threatening to tear the system down if their exact demands aren’t met (at least the biryonim insisted everyone should fight the Romans), famously declaring recently they’d rather be ruled by Arabs than compromise on their draft status.
At this point, one wonders whether the endless tantrums around military exemption are simply a manifestation of this theological two-front—and whether some sort of governmental upsherin (a traditional symbolic haircut at age 3) might finally settle the matter. After all, even within ultra-Orthodox circles, there’s occasional quiet acknowledgment that compromise might be necessary, but there seems to be little inclination to follow through on that ostensible commitment.
In Matos, the horeshoe may not get buried, but it is finally significantly marginalized. Pinchas leads the military campaign against the Midianites and their women—who, as “honey traps,” had caused the deadly plague at the end of Parshat Balak and the Zimri rebellion. Bilaam, the mastermind behind the scheme, is killed in the process. Meanwhile, the tribes of Reuven, Gad, and half of Menashe pledge to join the conquest of Canaan, assuaging Moshe’s fear that their request to settle east of the Jordan echoed the sins of the meraglim. Still, there is backlash against Pinchas, which also echoes today: critics claimed his lineage made him unworthy, as he “descended from idol-worshippers” and had “slain a tribal prince”, an attempt to employ adhominy to delegitimize Pinchas’ action that was ultimately literally and sanctioned by G-d Himself. There is elitist resentment against Pinchas resmbling the “As-a-Jew” Zimri camp, and the echoes of the mergalim in the “Only Jews” camp that is only resolved with the military pledge on the part of the two and a half tribes.
Some may object that now, during the Three Weeks, is not the time to raise such criticisms at the cost of Jewish unity or because it might lead to the spread of sinas chinam, the baseless hatred that led to the destruction of the Second Temple and the subsequent long exile. However, it is precisely during this period that we are meant to reflect on the historical sins that led to our destruction. The rebellions of the meraglim and biryonim are central to that story as told in TB Gittin 55-58, and the Parshos of Pinchas and Matos are always read during the Three Weeks.
In fact — for all the focus on the ostensible humiliation of Bar Kamtza that kicks off the narrative and serves as the time-worn education paradigm of unjustified humiliation and baseless hatred as the cause of the exile—the more telling and even more explicit maxim laying blame for the churban comes later in the narrative: “Rabbi Yoḥanan says: The excessive humility of Rabbi Zekharya ben Avkolas destroyed our Temple, burned our Sanctuary, and exiled us from our land.” A case can be made that there might be some parallels between this excessive humility and the current phenomenon of “suicidal empathy” that hamstrings our efforts to fight an existential war against a resolutely explicit Judeocial enemy which would love nothing more than the engineer another churban—making that parallel very timely.
However, more to the point regarding the aforementioned horseshoe, the moral confusion and handwringing exemplified by R Zekharya tying his own hands AND everyone else’s— he was too pious to either allow a one-time suspension of sacrificial rules or prevent Bar Kamtza from continuing his treason, all from fears of what “people will say”—illustrates the possibility of paralysis in face of existentially threats from within and without when trying to fulfill all moral criteria—even contradictory ones—simultaneously. This is not the time for “excessive humiiity”: this is the time to call out the threats . Otherwise the kingdom will be lost because of a horsehoe.
