Thousands of years ago, there lived a young woman named Timna. The Talmud teaches that Timna was “the daughter of kings”. She came from a family of great stature and wealth, and she knew from her youth that she wanted to be close to power. However, she was not Jewish. So it was that when she saw how God was favoring the Jews, protecting them and giving them rich harvests and safe passage, that she approached the Jewish elders and stated her desire to convert and to become one with the Jewish people.

Unlike with our ancestor Ruth, whose story we will read and study on Shavuot, Timna’s attempt at joining B’nai Yisrael did not go smoothly. In Sanhedrin 99b, the Talmud describes what happens next in Timna’s quest to convert: “She came before Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and they did not accept her. So, She went and became a concubine of Eliphaz, son of Esau, saying: It is preferable to be a maidservant for this nation (that is, the Jews), than be a noblewoman for another nation.”

Timna’s story didn’t end there, however. Despite not being allowed to join the Jewish people, she was in fact destined to be the matriarch of a nation we know all too well. Because the Talmud continues: “Ultimately, Amalek, son of Eliphaz, emerged from Timna, and Amalek’s tribe afflicted the Jewish people. What is the reason that the Jewish people were made to suffer at the hand of Amalek? It is due to the fact that they should not have rejected her when she sought to convert.”

Wow. That is a striking and honestly quite surprising take on the evil deeds of Amalek. It does not feel comfortable to read. At first glance, from this story, it looks like our Talmud is stating that Timna’s treatment by the Jewish leaders augmented or perhaps even inspired the evil actions of her son. 

But why in the world would our tradition suggest that there could ever be any justification for the horrors committed by Amalek? Why in the world would the Talmud suggest that our ancestors somehow shared in the blame for the violence they endured?

This weekend we are observing Shabbat Zachor, the Shabbat of Remembering, a special annual Shabbat where we depart from our normally-scheduled Torah reading in Exodus and insert a maftir aliyah from the book of Deuteronomy. 

This maftir includes the command:

זָכ֕וֹר אֵ֛ת אֲשֶׁר־עָשָׂ֥ה לְךָ֖ עֲמָלֵ֑ק בַּדֶּ֖רֶךְ בְּצֵֽאתְכֶ֥ם מִמִּצְרָֽיִם:

Remember what Amalek did to you on the way out of Egypt!

This verse reminds us of our obligation not to forget Amalek’s uniquely intense and poisonous hatred of our people. Traditionally, when we discuss this commandment, we focus in on the Ramban’s interpretation of this commandment, who says: “you are not to forget what Amalek did to us until we blot out his remembrance from under the heavens”.   

And yet, the verses immediately preceding the commandment to remember Amalek in Deuteronomy are actually full of a discussion not of Amalek but rather of the importance of Jews using fair weights and measures in commerce. This juxtaposition of weights, measures, and Amalek leads our commentator Rashi to conclude that the commandment to remember Amalek is mentioned in this specific context in order to teach us that “If you cheat with weights and measures, be concerned that the enemy will be incited to attack you. “

Wait. What are we supposed to do with this? Why would both Rashi AND the Talmud suggest that Amalek’s attack on B’nai Yisrael was somehow a punishment for Jewish sins?

This special reading about Amalek on Shabbat Zachor always occurs the weekend before Purim, which is a holiday commemorating yet another attempted slaughter of the Jews by a man traditionally thought to be a relative of Amalek-- Haman.

The Purim story presents us with a story that, as we teach it to our children each year, follows a pretty black-and-white setup. An evil man, Haman, plots to murder the Jews. A proud Jew, Esther, bravely resists him and saves her people with the help of her uncle, Mordechai. Esther and Mordechai are good, Haman is bad.   

And yet-- it is at Purim that the Talmud tells us to drink “ad d’lo yada bain arur haman l’baruch mordechai”, until we can’t tell the difference between the cursed Haman and the blessed Mordechai. Until we can’t tell the difference between good and evil. 

This means that it is specifically here, this week, leading up to Purim, that our tradition calls on us to imagine a blurring of the lines we had taken for granted, a blurring of our perception, a blurring of our certainties. Our tradition is not asking us to throw out our convictions or morals, but rather, to examine them so closely that the details begin to blur. And this blurring is not comfortable, and it is a real challenge, like when we hold a magnifying glass up to a leaf-- but just like holding up a magnifying glass, the process can reveal new lessons we wouldn’t have seen from afar. 

Purim reminds us that sometimes blurring, paradoxically, can remind us of moral clarity.   

And it is exactly this kind process that Rashi and the rabbis of the Talmud are leaning into when they explore the blurring of boundaries between those who embrace doing wrong, like Haman, and those who strive to do right, like Mordechai, or when they analyze the “why” behind Amalek’s hatred, instead of simply condemning it. They want to go further than simply condemning evil. They blame Amalek for the evil he commits, yes, as we always must call out evil actions-- but they also challenge us to dig deeper and examine how all of the parts of the world, both those we can affect and those we cannot, work together in any given moment to lead humanity either closer to chesed, to lovingkindness… or closer to sinat chinam, to baseless hatred. 

These difficult commentaries are acknowledging that as Jews we are not allowed to even pretend that we live in a moral vacuum, or to even entertain the idea that we might be powerless in the face of hate. We are all, always and in all of the ways, connected, and we, too, make choices that impact the world. 

Other sources follow similar thought processes. The Mishna teaches us to judge every person “lchaf zchut”, according to his merits, as opposed to his faults-- but never forgetting his faults. Then, Rebbe Nachman expands on this line, saying it applies “afilu mi she’hu rasha gamor”, even for someone who is bad THROUGH AND THROUGH--that in that extreme case, you must still search for goodness within him. And the Ba’al Shem Tov went even further, saying “Your fellow is your mirror… should you look upon your fellow and see a blemish, it is your own imperfection that you are encountering-- you are being shown what it is that you must correct within yourself.” He writes further, “We must wipe Amalek out of our hearts whenever—and wherever—he attacks.”   

But wait. Wipe Amalek out of our hearts? Yowch! These words are tough for us, who have been victimized by hatred over and over again throughout history, to read. 

Because we know, for certain, that there is no blemish within us that could ever justify the attacks on the weakest members of B’nai Yisrael by Amalek, or that could justify the attempt at genocide by Haman. There is no legitimate excuse for any of the pogroms or campaigns of hatred against Jews throughout history, no matter how much antisemites might blame us for their own actions. 

So, we are back to our original question. Why in the world does the story about Timna in the Talmud seem to suggest otherwise at first glance? Why does Rashi’s commentary do the same? What about Rebbe Nachman’s call to look for a speck of good even in the worst humans, or the Ba’al Shem Tov’s reminder that we do indeed tend to see our own faults reflected in others? How do we reconcile their words with the commandment to remember Amalek’s evil?

What is the ultimate takeaway that our tradition is asking us to remember, on this Shabbat Zachor?

Well. I can’t believe that our sages are truly saying that we are at fault for the evil that befalls us. That is a non-starter for me. 

But I can believe that they are saying that just because evil has befallen us, we are NOT off the hook for the consequences of our own actions and choices. To the contrary: our painful experiences of having evil done to us make it all the more important that we commit, again and again, to building a better world, a world of intentional, radical compassion, one choice at a time. What we have to remember, on this Shabbat Zachor, on this Shabbat of Remembrance, is, in fact, that we always have power, and always have the agency, to make a real difference in this world. Because we know what will happen, and we know the pain that will befall others and ourselves, if we don’t. 

Our sages want us to remember that even when we feel helpless, we are not. They aren’t trying to tell us that we are to blame for others’ hatred against us: they are trying to remind us of our own strength, a strength that no amount of antisemitism can ever take away from us. 

Our sages knew that the moment we give up ownership of the consequences of our own choices and actions, we have given up our belief that we will ever be able to heal this world. And they want us to believe. 

They knew that the moment we lose the ability to look for a remnant humanity in the other, even a rasha gamur, we lose sight of the humanity in ourselves. And they did not want us to lose sight of our humanity. 

They knew that the moment we forget that we can -- and do-- direct the course of the world in a real way for better or for worse each day, even in the face of horror, we have ceased to be partners in bringing about a better world-to-come.

As we approach Purim, the song goes: Mi she’nichnas Adar, marbim b’simcha-- from the time the month of Adar begins, we increase in joy.

Shabbat Zachor calls on us not only to increase our joy, but to increase our faith in ourselves, our faith that we can still enact real change, and still bring about real goodness and compassion, in a world that knows real evil all too well.

We just have to remember our power. Shabbat shalom.