To the Editor:

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oram Hazony makes Mordecai a virtual moral paragon in Mordecai’s Challenge: An Essay on War, Leadership and Politics [March]. Mr. Hazony gets just about everything wrong with respect to morality, starting with an understanding of what morality is. He puts morality up against purity, as if they were in inherent tension and as if one could not be both pure and moral simultaneously. This is not so. He also equates morality with justice, which he then equates with social justice. This reasoning is wrong as well. Morality has everything to do with conscience, right intent, and acting in accordance with being made in the image of G-d. But you would never guess this from Mr. Hazony’s words.

One has to be astounded at the arguments he makes in setting up Mordecai and his predecessors as men of virtue. Consider these three points: 1) Mordecai slaughters all of the sons of Haman, though there is never any suggestion that the 10 of them are themselves guilty of any crime. This is guilt by association. Surely, Jews must understand that guilt by association is an injustice. We can recall that all too many misguided Christians ascribe guilt to Jews by the purported guilt of their ancestors. We know this is wrong action. 2) Mr. Hazony argues that the wrath Mordecai unleashes is meant to be so terrific that none will counter him in the future. Setting aside that one could never know whether the terror would be successful a priori, I assume that Mr. Hazony understands this is precisely the same argument that ISIS makes in justifying its spectacular barbarism. Nobody mistakes ISIS actions as moral ones. How do we argue Mordecai’s actions are otherwise? 3) Mr. Hazony tries to defend the indefensible by arguing that the conquest of Canaan was justifiable to assure a righteous home for the Hebrews. He must know that the Hebrews made quite a nice mess of things themselves in their biblical homeland without any help from the Gentiles. This fact would have been well known to the ancient writer, who actually recorded the events of the conquest many generations after the fact. So, the writer must have known the argument was false at the time he wrote the words. Furthermore, since when do we have the right to annihilate our enemies when they stand in the way of our making the world the way we want it to be for ourselves? Isn’t that precisely what Hitler argued for in his unimaginably evil Final Solution? Let’s give no credence to this kind of reasoning.

What is interesting about the Book of Esther, at least the Hebrew portion that excludes the Greek words in the Septuagint, is that the actions by Mordecai have no explicit connection whatever to G-d. All of his actions are purely the acts of political man. In the end, how moral can actions be if they have no connection to the Creator?

Patrick Rhoads
Alexandria, Virginia

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n his thoughtful and thought-provoking essay, Yoram Hazony makes a compelling case for the legitimate use of lethal force by the Jews of Persia, as related in the Book of Esther and, more generally, for the use of power to impose morality. Left unsaid is the thornier issue of how to address the legitimate use of force by individuals with competing moral claims. But I gladly assume that morality, as understood by the Jews on the basis of our sacred texts, and generally accepted by the more or less civilized societies of our times, can be adjudicated objectively and is not relative.

From that perspective, Dresden, Hiroshima, and Nagasaki were the result of moral decisions by the Allies, even if second-guessing has surrounded them with later controversy. As a matter of fact, Germany and Japan amply deserved this punishment, as well as any others inflicted upon them. As Mr. Hazony observes, the actions taken by the Jews of Persia to do away with the clear and present threat to their existence must also be judged acceptable.

However, it is one thing to engage in necessary violence; it is quite another to rejoice in its consequences. We don’t go around wielding noisemakers, eating and drinking, dancing, and making merry on the anniversary of Dresden or Hiroshima and, quite frankly, I find it revolting that, on Purim, we should celebrate the death of 75,000 people, of whom probably not every one was an enemy. If it had to be done, it had to be done, but we should not teach our children to party at the thought.

Much closer to a better understanding of Judaism is the story told on Passover: When the Jews wildly rejoiced at the sight of the Egyptians drowning in the returning waters of the Red Sea, Moses chastised them, reminding them that the dead were human beings like us, even if they had been our enemies. The egg, whose whiteness is a symbol of mourning in the East, is said also to remind us to mourn the drowned Egyptian pursuers. It is a far, far better symbol of Jewish morality than the grogger.

Walter Schimmerling
Address withheld

To the Editor:

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oram Hazonyhas undertaken a noble task in his scriptural challenge to “the foolishness of certain pacifists, ecologians, vegetarians, and abstentionist sectarians” who claim “moralities that are supposedly higher than our own.”

There is a further challenge, however, in acknowledging that the “middle path” or “the balance between” the demands of purity and morality leads to compromise rather than to truth. Levi was not a “tribe of purity” (Genesis 34). The judgment on that tribe (Genesis 49:5–7) was turned to blessing by God’s mercy and grace, showing itself in men such as Moses, Aaron, Phineas, Jeremiah, and John the Baptist. Noah was “referred to as righteous” not because he “saves mankind from the flood” but because he “found favor in the eyes of the Lord.” (Genesis 6:8) The Sabbath was set aside not for the creature to “seek purity” but to acknowledge the work of the Creator. Joseph did not resist the Egyptian temptress to “maintain purity” but to honor the God who had sent him to Egypt “to preserve life.” (Genesis 45:5)

Salvation is always accompanied by judgment on sin. (Isaiah 63:3–4). The Hebrew Scriptures will never produce monasticism but will produce a preacher like Charles Spurgeon who advised, “Work yourself to death, and pray yourself alive.” Spurgeon described Mordecai as follows: “He used his eminence to promote the prosperity of Israel. In this, he was a type of the Messiah who, upon His throne of glory, seeks not His own, but spends His power for His people.”

Carol Tharp
Winnetka, Illinois

To the Editor:

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read Yoram Hazony’s excellent article and thought about my childhood Purims when I frolicked with abandon and was encouraged by adults to sip schnapps and wine to the point of tipsiness so, as they explained quoting from the fourth-century sage Rava, the distinction between the “blessed Mordecai” and the “cursed Haman” is blurred.

As odd as that advisement was to me as a child, it was lost amid the night’s theme of unfettered celebration. But then, just as Mr. Hazony indicates, in chapter nine of the Megillah, there was always that sobering moment when victory over the enemies of the Jews is achieved, and the number of those slain is in the tens of thousands. As much as one felt gladness and vindication, for a child, the conjured picture of human carnage abruptly inhibited the elation, at least for a moment.

As I grew older, the minor dissonance I felt during Purim was accentuated by my religious education, which posited that Haman was only his generation’s offshoot of Amalek and so had to be destroyed as a continuation of God’s direction in the Torah to annihilate utterly Amalek (including women, children, and livestock). The ethical quandary Mr. Hazony discusses found me wondering about the validity and moral authority of a deity who would ask such a thing from his people.

Further confused, I asked myself and my teachers what fairness was there in condemning Pharaoh as a reprobate when it was God who, time after time, hardened Pharaoh’s heart so he wouldn’t let the Israelites go. I was a firstborn and read of the murders of the Egyptian firstborns. What chance did they have to alter their fate if it was all preordained by my own God?

But exposed to more sophisticated conceptions of good and evil, I thought of the following: When I watch a Greek tragedy and know from the very first act that Medea and Oedipus can’t stop themselves from their destiny, how is it I don’t question the play’s premise that these figures cannot change who they are or the events to come? Similarly, when I take in a Shakespearean tragedy, I watch characters being given innumerable opportunities to make the right decision and alter their path away from destruction, but they simply cannot. And I accept that paralysis and obstinacy as a brilliant interpretation of the nature of evil and came away dazzled by Shakespeare’s genius.

I had another realization. As a child of Holocaust survivors who heard my parents’ nightmarish screams in the middle of the night, I admit, as part of my strong personal response to that evil, that I hated (and hate) the Nazis with a raging anger, and I replayed in my mind scenarios of their utter destruction. As with Mr. Hazony’s conclusion about why more than just a representative few of Haman’s henchman needed to be killed, I felt no pity in thinking about the firebombing of Dresden.

So if I could accept the basis of tragedy in a Greek play and in Shakespeare, how is it I felt discomfort in seeing the Torah as offering me instruction on the nature of evil and the impossibility of the evildoer’s changing? I reassessed the Amalek story and accepted it as a clarion call to clearly identify evil and respond ruthlessly.

I had begun to wonder whether God’s commandment was absolute because God, much like a parent who worried greatly about a sensitive child’s survival in a difficult world, knew how reluctant the Israelites and subsequent generations would be in waging total war. Sadly, through the centuries, with courage and dignity, often bitterly, Jews have needed to fight for their own survival and incredibly have repeatedly even rallied to the cause of justice elsewhere. Yet, while the resolve may be imperative, and, as Mr. Hazony points out, “the hero leaves nothing to God until he himself reaches exhaustion,” the task is physically exhausting and spiritually wearying. We easily understand the pathos in Golda Meir’s words: “We can forgive the Arabs for killing our children. We cannot forgive them for forcing us to kill their children.”

Perhaps here is where Rava’s fourth-century wisdom comes in. If the Jews of Persia had to kill thousands of Haman’s followers to survive, what a moral price that must have been to pay. Yes, in Mordecai’s insistence on annihilating all of Haman’s supporters, he may be demonstrating, as Mr. Hazony claims, a “political leadership for which the Jews should hope for in every generation.”

But such a step might make any decent person temporarily confuse Mordechai and Haman. Thus, Rava may be suggesting that Purim gives us a day once a year to admit to a possible disorientation that challenges our certainty. That might be the therapeutic intervention we need if we are to wake up the next day clear-eyed and resolute in our fight against the Hamans of our time.

Saul Golubcow
Potomac, Maryland

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wrote my book God and Politics in Esther (from which my Commentary essay was excerpted) to get to the bottom of what the biblical story of Esther is all about. I wanted to understand what the Purim holiday is meant to teach us, both politically and theologically. As I explain in my book, I am enthusiastic about the message of this holiday, and would like for it to be better appreciated.
But this does not mean that I endorse every popular custom that has been added to the holiday. For example, every year I go to a Megila reading in my neighborhood that is billed as a “quiet reading.” There is no commotion at this quiet reading (that is, no groggers and so forth). I agree that all the giddy noise-making makes Purim more fun for children. But it is less successful for the adults, who should be using the holiday, among other things, as an opportunity to think more carefully about the actual teachings of the Book of Esther than they often do. Similarly, I do not get drunk on Purim, and I suspect no one should. Anyone who thinks I might be right can find ample support for this position in Talmud Megila 7b.

So in my view, readers who do not like the precise way Purim is observed in their neighborhood should make a change. They should go to a public reading in which the complete Book of Esther is read in an engaging—or even entertaining—but ultimately sober fashion. They should discuss the extremely important religious teachings of this book in an adult way. And they should keep the other mitzvot associated with a traditional celebration of this holiday, including giving gifts to friends and charity to the poor, and by having a festive meal (something resembling an American Thanksgiving meal).

But they should also be happy. Purim is a moment of rejoicing in our lives, and it should be. We rejoice on the First Day of Passover, which celebrates Israel’s departure from Egypt, even though this departure is the immediate result of the deaths of the firstborn of Egypt. Similarly, we celebrate the Seventh day of Passover to commemorate the crossing of the Red Sea—an event that includes the annihilation of Pharaoh’s army. This celebration and rejoicing is not because we take pleasure in the destruction of God’s creatures. (See Proverbs 24.17; Ezekiel 18.23, 32, 33.11; Ovadia 1.12; Sanhedrin 39b; Megila 10a; Zohar to Exodus 14.20.) Rather, we rejoice in the deliverance of our ancestors and our people, and in the triumph of the oppressed over those who killed and enslaved them.

Just the same is true for Purim. There is no need to rejoice in the destruction of the enemy. But it is important to rejoice in God’s blessings—including our own political and military salvation.
It is sad that there are Jews who find it a strain to rejoice in a holiday in which our people were delivered and their persecutors defeated. This goes for Christian readers as well: Christians who cannot rejoice in the salvation of Israel from the idolaters who enslaved and persecuted them and promised their extermination have simply detached themselves from the religion of the Bible. And after we are all done regretting Purim and the Passover, then what? I suppose we can move on to regretting Chanukah and Israel’s Independence Day and the liberation of Jerusalem as well?
There are some people for whom there is nothing in life worth celebrating other than a sense of being utterly blameless. This is a mirage, of course. No human being is ever utterly blameless unless he is dead. But anything important that is ever achieved—certainly in politics and warfare—involves incurring some degree of blame. People who expect the Bible to offer us utterly blameless heroes will never be able to appreciate and love the Bible, since it seeks nothing of the sort. Rather, the Bible offers us heroes who are not perfect. I suggest we rejoice in their stories and allow ourselves to be inspired by them anyway. Because if we insist on utterly blameless heroes, we could be waiting a very long time.