Parashat Tetzaveh | Rabbi Becca Weintraub | February 28, 2026

Shabbat shalom to everyone.

Just to say before we um paused for the

shama, there was a young one who said,

"Yay!" right as we went into it. It just

felt so perfect. Like that moment of

just silence, but also the anticipation

and the joy of being able to pray and to

be in that sense of unity just for a

moment. And there are many many lines

and words that often will move me as we

make our way through the tila together.

And I have spoken about this and and

thought about it a lot in the ways in

which I notice how they shift and change

over time.

Some of them striking me at a particular

moment in my life only for me to pass by

them months later or even a day later or

weeks later. Others that linger, they

wait for me. They become words that I

anticipate saying. And I think many who

have a practice can relate to this. The

liturgy isn't static and it meets us

differently depending on who we are and

what we're carrying at any moment in our

lives.

One of the lines that's been piercing my

soul each time we reach it is at the

very end of our Torah service. It's when

we say we pray we preserve our humanity.

It's not an ancient prayer. Roly and

Felicia actually wrote it after the

atrocities of October 7th and the

unfolding of the war in Gaza.

It's a really simple sentence. It's not

a grand theology of any type.

It's not a complicated metaphor.

It's an openhearted plea. We pray. we

preserve our humanity.

For some, I know that this prayer is

hard to say, and for others, it's deeply

moving that we say it and that we need

to say it. And still, there are others

where the feelings are complicated, and

I'm sure they've also shifted over the

past few years as the world and our

place in it has also changed and morphed

over time.

That diversity of response and the

willingness to wrestle honestly and

openly is one of the things that I love

most about being a part of this

spiritual community that we build

together. We don't demand uniformity of

our feelings. We make space for

complexity even and especially when it

feels hard.

And when I reflect on what moves me

about these words, it's precisely, I

think, the simplicity that's held within

them. They sound so obvious.

Of course, we want to preserve our

humanity.

Of course, that's something that we want

to do.

And it's hard.

It's hard to live them. And what are we

willing to live them for? at what cost?

There's nothing new about this struggle.

And I think it's often the Torah that I

feel very drawn to the simplicity of

things, but also it feeling like that's

the hardest task that we have in our

spiritual lives.

And I would argue that often the more

simple and obvious something sounds, the

more urgently we need to be reminded of

it, which I think the Torah gives us a

lot of that. Be kind. Don't oppress.

love your neighbor.

They're not sophisticated or very large

moral ideas.

They're basic demands and still they're

among the hardest things to fulfill,

especially in a world that feels

saturated in fear and in rage and anger.

And we know that this morning as we

I came into shul. I didn't even know I

found out from early that war is

unfolding in the Middle East once again.

Although we were on the brink of it and

we were just waiting. We've watched in

horror as Jewish settlers burn, murder,

terrorize Palestinians in the West Bank.

We've listened as our hostages return

and share the worst of what we could

have ever imagined. And across the

world, we know not only in Iran war, but

also the protests that people are doing

for their rights despite the threat to

their lives. And we know war continues

to rage in Ukraine and here in America

and across the North American area where

we have even in Canada there's gun

violence and school shootings. We're

seeing attacks on women, on the queer

community, and on immigrants. We watch

rights contested, language that's

abused, and entire communities that are

made into scapegoats. Violence is

praised by our own government.

It's disorienting.

It's destabilizing. And it's terrifying.

And in moments like this, I think

something happens to our hearts. Fear

makes our hearts become more narrow.

and the trauma and the pain, they make

us harder.

The instinct for self-p protection grows

louder than the call that we have toward

compassion or helping others. And we

begin to divide the world into us versus

them, deserving and undeserving,

innocent, and those who are not. And so

we pray not to look away from these

horrors, not to deny the hate directed

to us or the violence inflicted by

others or committed in our name, but to

remain human as we face it amid the fear

it awakens within us. We pray that we

preserve our humanity.

And this Shabbat, the Shabbat right

before Pim is one which is known as

Shabbat Zahor. We read a special maft

here that brings us back to the story of

Amalik, the enemy nation that attempted

to annihilate the Israelites during our

desert journey. According to the rabbis,

it's a mitzvah. It's actually a

commandment to hear the words of the

mafir this morning.

Remember what it is that Amalake did to

you on your journey out of Egypt.

And we're also commanded to remember the

Torah deeply disturbing call because it

continues. It's only a few lines, but it

says,

"You shall blot out the memory of Amale

from under heaven."

They're not easy words.

I don't think that they're meant to be.

The sukim, these verses that we read

have been abused and weaponized,

interpreted by some as permission to

murder and terrorize our Jewish enemies

even to this day. It's one of those

texts that forces us to ask not only

what the Torah says, but how is it heard

and how do people live it?

What was so terrible about Amalik and

what they did that they should be

blotted out? We have many enemies, but

this is one in particular. Every year we

have a mitzvah. We are commanded to say

we blot them out. We remember what they

did. The rabbis teach that Amalik

attacked from behind. As Ben Israel was

walking in the desert, targeting the

most vulnerable members of the society,

the women and the children, those who

were exhausted and weak, those who

needed extra help on their journey

rather than those trained to fight, who

were standing at the front of the group.

Amalake pride on the stragglers who were

in the back. And Amalake

took advantage of those who were

exhausted.

They chose the ones who were the easiest

target.

The image is haunting when you think

about it. A people newly freed from

slavery, trudging through the

wilderness, and an enemy who does not

confront them head-on, but slips from

behind to strike them

least able, those who are failing, those

who are struggling to defend themselves.

There's also a tradition as to why we

read it now because there is an idea

that Haman is actually a descendant of

Amal Lake. So there's the connection to

Purim and from that tradition grows an

idea that we must destroy every kind of

manifestation of Amalake in our world.

Any kind of evil enemy that comes that

we have to blot them out as we heard and

we will hear. We have to get rid of

them. We have to hate them. that meet

hate should meet hate. And this is how

the mitzvah can and sometimes has played

out in Jewish imagination and tragically

also in reality and in our history and

in our actions.

Some read this as a warning. Some read

the maft here this morning as get them

before they can get us. It's even linked

to a teaching from a midash that says,

and I really don't know what to do with

this. I'm not sure. I It's complicated.

And it says, "Anyone who is merciful to

the cruel." Anyone who is merciful to

the cruel will eventually become cruel

to the merciful.

The connection that's made through this

midrash to Purim and Haman and to our

reading is that Sha Saul who spared one

of Haman's ancestors many many

generations before in the time of the

prophets. Haman then arose from that

ancestor to target the Jewish people in

the story of Purim.

So mercy, the argument goes, created the

way or paved the path for that cruelty

that we saw later on to others.

It's I think a frightening teaching.

It's also powerful and again I think it

speaks directly to the trauma and the

fear that happens when we're so afraid.

And it says if you let your guard down,

if you soften, if you hesitate, you're

going to pay for it later.

And

there's a part of the migila we don't

often teach our children here in Kadima,

which is our Hebrew school. I think many

of us don't learn it in Hebrew school

and many of us confront it only once

we're older. And that's the part where

the line between being the victim and

the perpetrator becomes foggy and

blurry. The Perm story rightly

celebrates Esther and Morai's defeat and

the Jewish people's defeat of Haman and

the people being saved from this

destruction, a total destruction of our

people. And it's worth celebrating.

And the book of Esther also tells us

that the Jews of Persia killed over

75,000

people.

75,000

people.

What may have begun in fear, perhaps

even self-defense, although I'm not sure

if that was the case at that point, but

it could have been, it didn't stay that

way. The text described not only

survival but large-scale killing where

things started with terror and

vulnerability and they ended in

overwhelming force and murder.

This too is a part of our story. And if

we're honest, this part is shameful to

face. And here we often will dim the

lights. Sometimes people will read it in

a softer voice when you get to that part

of the migila

because it means that the Torah and the

migila are not simply stories about what

was done to us. They're also stories

about what we are capable of doing. And

they really refuse to let us just rest

in a sense of our moral innocence.

And so, as I've taught before,

we don't read and remember Amala to

ignite or to make it so that our

instinct for self-defense is what we

need to go toward. I feel like

particularly this morning when we feel

so vulnerable, it's a good reminder for

us to say we want to go sometimes to

that place immediately, but maybe we

want to read it as a warning about what

fear can turn us into. We read it to say

who we can be, who we want to be.

Rabbi Mosha Feinstein, one of the

biggest thinkers in the Orthodox world

of the 20th century, offers a really

beautiful and striking interpretation

where he says, "The point of this

mitzvah to remember and to blot out

Amalik is to remind us now that it is

possible for any creature of flesh and

blood to become as wicked as Amalik.

that each of us, however great our

spiritual accomplishments, must worry

that we ourselves might be tricked into

committing the most serious sins, even

those that everyone considers to be the

most despicable.

All of us can have that. It's aidic way

of thinking, too. A lot of theidic

thinkers also say there's an external

amalake, but each of us also has this

evil that's a part of us that we can't

deny. That this warning also is an

inward call, not only external.

In other words, remembering amalake is

not only about identifying our enemies.

It's about confronting our own ca

capacity for cruelty. It's about

acknowledging that even evil is not only

out there, but it's also in each of us.

And it's really part of being human.

It's a part of being human. And on this

Shabbat, we recall the commandment to

remember and blot out Amalech as a way

of beginning the work of blotting out

our own tendencies toward that kind of

evil, toward the indifference, toward

that want for revenge. When we feel so

hurt, scared or angry, we remember not

so that we will harden our hearts, but

so that we will preserve our humanity.

PURM is about wrestling with the

violence and the threat that the Jewish

people have endured and that we

undeniably continue to endure. Our

history and present Jew hatred that we

face give us no shortage of reason to

feel afraid in our world.

But PUM is also about wrestling with the

violence we are capable of committing

when we are really afraid. And Shabbat

Zahor in particular calls us to examine

our amalike amalake like tendencies. The

impulse to strike at the vulnerable to

justify harm in the name of our own

security to stay silent as others will

do this around us.

Amale targeted the stragglers, the weak

ones, the ones who could not defend

themselves, the ones who were standing

all the way in the back. And that's why

we remember

because I think the opposite of Amalake

is not this violence to blot out or the

strength to try and survive over all

others, but it's to dig deeper into our

morality.

It's the refusal to pray on the weak

even when we are wounded ourselves. It's

the need to protect the vulnerable,

especially when we have the power not to

or the ability to turn away because it's

easier.

In a recent New York Times essay, or

really was an op-ed, it was beautiful by

Rabbi Shyheld, he reflects on the

Torah's repeated commandment to care for

the immigrant, but he widens it to

taking care of those who are vulnerable.

He says, "The book of Exodus explicitly

forbids the people from mistreating an

immigrant. Contrary to popular

assumptions, the prohibition on abusing

the vulnerable does not derive only from

the children of Israel's past experience

of slavery and oppression. It is a basic

demand of morality. We must not take

advantage of the weak. The people's

memory of having suffered in Egypt

amplifies and intensifies a demand that

there is already in place.

Don't take advantage of the vulnerable.

His framing is important.

Yes, we have to remember Egypt and yes,

we have to remember Amaleik.

We have to remember Haman. But memory

alone is not the point of all of it.

Memory and the way that we choose to

remember is meant to shape our moral

identity. It's meant to train us away

from becoming what we fear most in the

world.

Shabbat is not a pass for violence and

hatred, which it's been used for and it

will continue to be. But I pray that

that's not the case. And it's not a call

to blot out our enemies at any cost, or

to turn away from the injustices we face

day in and day out. It's a call toward

the justice which is crying so deeply

for us to join in on in this fight. A

call to be mindful not only against

those who would harm us but against the

parts of ourselves that could harm

others in action or in our inaction.

To preserve our humanity is not just a

prayer. It's a practice.

It means asking again and again, who are

the stragglers? Who are the ones who are

exhausted? Who are the vulnerable ones?

Who's at the back that needs help? And

what would it mean for us to turn toward

them instead of away from them? On this

Shabbat Zahur, we don't simply remember

what was done to us. We remember who we

need to be. We are called to be a people

who know what it is to be hated and who

therefore refuse to let hatred swallow

us from within.

We pray that we preserve our humanity.

It's no longer a simple prayer. May it

be a call to action in a world that

pushes us toward anger and hate. And may

this Shabbat zakur be not only a

remembrance of Amal Lake, but a

recommmitment for each of us to help the

vulnerable, to our moral compass, to

return to that moral compass, and to

remembering all we can and should be in

the world. Shabbat shalom.