Following the megillah reading on Purim, I thought again, as I do every year, how unapologetically we, the Jewish people recall Haman’s undoing. In a departure from a tradition that prohibits celebrating the enemy’s downfall, it seems odd that we are not in the slightest queasy or self conscious about articulating in vivid detail the demise of Haman and his wicked family. But then, recall that Haman descended from Amalek, the nation whose memory we are commanded—in a logical contradiction—to remember to eliminate from memory.

According to tradition, Amalek earned this distinction because at a time when the nations of the world respected that the Jewish People are under the Divine protectorate, Amalek chose to plant seeds of doubt about this, starting a war with the Jews to make its point, and losing badly on all fronts.  

Of all the negative character traits Judaism identifies, this one is most offensive, symbolic of the worst evil. Raising doubts about Israel, Amalek set itself apart from the other nations who accepted this premise, simply for the sake of standing apart, of being different. 

Today, when even the murder of Jewish babies in their sleep fails to garner unequivocal condemnation, as we saw last week after the massacre of the Fogel family in Itamar, Purim reminds us that it is not only acceptable, but it is a moral imperative to call evil by its name, and extirpate it without ambiguity.

But there is another kind of evil, more troublesome than Haman’s and so relevant to the Purim holiday we just marked: masked evil, the kind that we find among Middle-East “peace activists.” 

It’s a curious thing that upon scrutiny, few if any of these peace activists seem to be engaged in popular bridge-building activities. They are rather persistently focused, like Amalek, on waging war with Israel. The difference of course, is that they sit on the fence and stir the pot from a safe distance, encouraging BDS and other such initiatives that embolden Israel's enemies, while hiding their intentions behind the politically correct banner of "peace." 

But peace is nowhere on their agenda. Rather, they want to shake things up and challenge Israel’s right to exist if for no other reason than to challenge a historic truth. 

Judaism sees this as an irredeemable evil. Like Amalek, it is a hopeless wickedness, and the Torah attitude is to recognize the futility of engaging this evil.

Similar in some ways is the wickedness of one of the Hagaddah’s Four Sons, who asks, in a stand-offish manner: “What is all this to you,” keeping himself at a distance to avoid being confused or counted among those of us who embrace our traditions. 

Judaism, possibly more than any other faith, encourages questioning. And yet it finds this kind of questioning reprehensible. In fact, the Hagaddah attaches no value judgment to the other three sons. Only this questioner earns the epithet that distinguishes him on moral grounds: wicked.

Wicked because his comment, masked as question, is really a taunt. It is the taunt of those who cast doubt not because they are pressed by a need to know, but because—for reasons that deserve to be explored elsewhere—they would, rather than throw their lot in with the community, sit on a high perch and set themselves apart.

We all know such individuals, people who make a point of being contrarian, of looking askance, or down, at the community. Often they are in-your-face with external, superficial attempts to announce their individuality. But unlike Haman and Amalek, the Wicked Son—despite his attempt to remove himself—is yet counted as a “son” worthy of our effort and engagement, and most importantly, our pity. 

In posturing himself as “different,” in speaking cynically about accepted values and raising doubts about time-tested truths wholesomely embraced by the community, the Wicked Son betrays deep insecurities about his own identity. And when all else fails, he will cast aspersions, if not on the content of these truths, then on the people who accept them. 

How to respond to such an individual? According to the Hagaddah, the old fashioned way: to “set his teeth on edge,” in other words, to cut him down to size. Not as punishment, but to help him gain a measure of self-awareness that will allow him to achieve the necessary humility if genuine individuality within his character is ever to shine. 

In all likelihood, when the mirror is held up to his face, he will uncover that he is rather average, with his distinctiveness amounting to not that much more than some quirks and idiosyncrasies of which there's enough to go around in good measure, so that any way he slices it, he will find himself in great company. 

One of the best lessons we can take from Purim, and from the Passover Seder, is the blessing of abandoning ourselves to the community, so that instead of standing alone, we can stand together as one. I imagine that was what the Psalmist had in mind when he sang: How good and pleasant it is when God’s people live together in unity. (Psalms 133)