The Haftorah for Parshat Zachor, which we read on the Shabbat preceding Purim, is one such moment. The Haftorah (I Samuel 15:2-34 according to the Ashkenazi custom) recounts the dramatic episode of King Saul’s battle against Amalek. It is a passage that is as unsettling as it is instructive, as relevant as it is ancient.
The prophet Samuel conveys to Saul a clear and unequivocal Divine command: wage war against Amalek and destroy them and everything they possess. “Spare them not" (15:3) he is told. It is a mandate rooted in memory and morality alike, a response to Amalek’s unprovoked attack on the Israelites shortly after the Exodus from Egypt, when the Jewish people were weary and vulnerable.
And so King Saul goes to war. He defeats Amalek decisively. The Israelite army triumphs. Yet at the moment of victory, something shifts. Instead of fulfilling the command in full, Saul spares Agag, the Amalekite king. He also preserves the best of the sheep and cattle, ostensibly to offer them as sacrifices to G-d.
It sounds reasonable and humane. It sounds, perhaps, even noble.
But it was none of those things.
When Samuel confronts Saul, the prophet’s rebuke thunders across the generations: “Why did you not obey the voice of the Lord?" (15:19). Saul protests that the people took the spoils for sacrifice. Samuel’s response is unforgettable: “Does the Lord delight in burnt offerings and sacrifices as much as in obedience to the voice of the Lord? Behold, to obey is better than sacrifice" (15:22).
In that moment, Saul’s kingship begins to unravel. Not because he was cruel, but because he was soft where firmness was required. He allowed sentiment to override command.
And the consequences were catastrophic.
Jewish tradition teaches that among Agag’s descendants was Haman, the villain of the Purim story, who sought to annihilate the Jewish people centuries later. A single act of misplaced mercy reverberated through history.
But the Haftorah is not merely a historical account. It is also a mirror.
For decades, Israel has faced enemies who openly and proudly declare their genocidal intent. From Hamas to Hezbollah, the message has been chillingly consistent: the Jewish state must be eradicated.
Like Amalek, they do not seek coexistence. They seek destruction.
And yet, for far too long, Israel’s response oscillated between resolve and restraint, between clarity and concession. We have released convicted terrorists in lopsided prisoner exchanges. We have allowed incitement to flourish unchecked. We have hesitated at decisive moments, hoping that gestures of goodwill might temper implacable hatred.
Time and again, we have chosen to spare Agag.
To be sure, Israel is a moral nation, governed by law and animated by a deep respect for human life. Our soldiers operate under extraordinary ethical constraints. This moral sensitivity is a strength, not a weakness.
But morality divorced from realism is not righteousness. It is naiveté.
Saul’s error was not that he cared. It was that he failed to recognize the nature of the foe before him. Amalek was not merely another adversary. Amalek represented an ideology of annihilation, a worldview that sanctified slaughter and targeted the defenseless.
The Haftorah reminds us that against such an enemy, half-measures are not humane. They are dangerous.
The October 7 massacre was a brutal reminder of this truth. Terrorists stormed Israeli communities, butchered families, burned homes and dragged hostages into captivity. They filmed their atrocities with pride. They reveled in bloodshed.
In the aftermath, there were voices urging Israeli restraint, warning against “disproportionate" responses, counseling caution lest Israel be judged harshly in the court of international opinion. Such voices are not new. They echo the instinct that led Saul to spare Agag.
But Parshat Zachor demands that we remember - not only what Amalek did, but what happens when we fail to confront Amalek decisively.
This does not mean abandoning our values. On the contrary, it means defending them. A state that cannot protect its citizens forfeits its most basic moral obligation. Mercy toward those who slaughter children is not compassion; it is injustice toward their victims.
Samuel ultimately executes Agag himself, declaring, “As your sword has made women childless, so shall your mother be childless among women" (15:33). It is a stark verse. Yet it underscores a profound reality: evil left intact will rise again.
The Jewish people have learned this lesson too many times, at too high a cost.
Parshat Zachor is read every year to sharpen memory. It reminds us that there are forces in the world that cannot be appeased, only defeated. It cautions us against the seductive appeal of misplaced mercy.
King Saul’s tragedy was not that he lacked courage. It was that he lacked clarity.
May we not repeat his mistake.