The Morality of Wiping Out Amalek

On Tuesdays during lunchtime at Shulamith High School, I have the privilege of studying hashkafic topics with a small group of seniors. This past week, we delved into a well-known essay by Rav Dessler about the nekudat ha-bechira—the point of choice. This concept teaches that we are judged not by our actions but by the choices we make, especially when faced with a genuine inner conflict.

For instance, if I know I must observe Shabbat but deeply desire to use my phone on Shabbat, God judges me based on how I navigate that tension between what is objectively right and my personal desires. However, for someone unaware of the concept of Shabbat, this is not a true choice—they lack the knowledge to recognize the conflict. As such, they cannot be held accountable for something beyond their understanding. Simple enough, right?

Then one student raised a thought-provoking question: “Does that mean Hamas members might not be punished if they were raised to hate Jews and don’t know any better?” Heavy question. Before I could fully process it, another student followed up with: “Why do we condemn Hamas for murdering innocent men, women, and children if we are commanded to wipe out Amalek?” Another heavy question, and suddenly, my peaceful lunch turned into a profound moral discussion.

Let’s focus on the second question today. The mitzvah of wiping out Amalek is one we encounter annually on Parshat Zachor. We are so meticulous about fulfilling this obligation that this is the one time during the year when everyone—men and women—comes to shul to fulfill a personal obligation to hear about our obligation to annihilate another nation. In some communities, we are so machmir, so strict, that we read it multiple times to ensure every nuance of pronunciation and tradition is adhered to—zeicher, zecher, Ashkenazi trop, Sephardi trop, Mizrachi trop, Yemenite trop, Chabad trop, and, yes, even Italian trop. Because if you’re Italian and don’t hear that you must annihilate another nation in the Italian dialect, you haven’t fulfilled the mitzvah correctly. Clearly, this mitzvah carries immense weight, yet we are quick to denounce Hamas as immoral for their genocidal intentions while maintaining our own moral standing.

Interestingly, the Torah records the story of Amalek twice: in Parshat Beshalach, when God says, machoh emcheh et zecher Amalek—that He will erase Amalek’s memory—and in Parshat Ki Teitzei, when the Torah states, machoh timcheh et zecher Amalek—that we must erase Amalek’s memory. The annual personal obligation we fulfill comes from the latter account, where the onus is on us. Every year we are obligated to read not how God will destroy Amalek but how we should destroy Amalek. How do we reconcile this mitzvah with our deeply ingrained values of compassion and mercy?

Rabbi Norman Lamm acknowledged the difficulty, writing, “Our discussion of the Halakha on Amalek and the Seven Nations has not solved all the moral problems to our satisfaction as believing Jews.” Some view it as a chok, a law beyond human comprehension, seemingly inconsistent with the Torah’s overarching values of kindness and mercy.

And just when you think that we are so morally advanced in coming up with this moral quandary in the 20^th or 21^st century, you should know that even in antiquity, Chazal grappled with the morality of this mitzvah. The Gemara in Yoma (22b) recounts how King Shaul questioned its morality when commanded to annihilate Amalek. He said:

ומה נפש אחת אמרה תורה הבא עגלה ערופה, כל הנפשות הללו על אחת כמה וכמה! ואם אדם חטא – בהמה מה חטאה? ואם גדולים חטאו – קטנים מה חטאו? יצאה בת קול ואמרה לו אל תהי צדיק הרבה.

“If the Torah requires atonement for one life taken unjustly through the eglah arufah, how can I destroy an entire nation? If the men sinned, what of the animals? And if the adults sinned, what of the children?

A Divine Voice responded: “Do not be overly righteous.” God essentially told Shaul, “Stop being such a frumie, with your overly idealistic moralizing.” Yet the Gemara leaves the ethical dilemma unresolved, suggesting it remains a chok—a Divine decree we cannot fully understand.

Let me share with you how I understand the morality of this mitzvah. I believe this mitzvah, though binding in theory, was never practiced and has no practical application today. It is true that the Gemara rules there is an obligation to wipe out Amalek and the Rambam codifies this halacha, but I think this is one of those mitzvot that are drosh v’kabel schar—study it and receive reward because it has no practical ramifications. The importance of this mitzvah is in what we learn from it, not in its literal fulfillment. Even God’s command to Shaul to destroy Amalek when Shaul spared Agag was not a directive to wipe out the entire Amalekite nation. It was a command to destroy one group of Amalekites. After all, a short time later, King David wages war against Amalek, and 400 Amalekites escape the battle, making it clear that Agag could not have been the last remaining Amalekite.

Why does this mitzvah have no practical application today? First, the Gemara in Berachot (28a) teaches that Sancherib, king of Assyria, mixed up all the nations during the First Temple period, rendering Amalek’s lineage untraceable.

I know what you’re going to say: What about 23andMe? What if, at some point in the future, genetic testing or some other method can identify who is from Amalek? The mitzvah would still have no practical application. The Rambam rules in Hilchot Melachim that this obligation is not personal; if I see an Amalekite on the street, I have no obligation to kill him. It is a national mitzvah. Furthermore, the Rambam also rules that Amalekites who make peace with the Jews and accept the Noahide laws are no longer subject to this commandment. Additionally, the mitzvah applies only when a Jewish king is appointed—a condition that will only occur in the Messianic era, a time of universal peace and belief in God. Thus, the conditions for fulfilling this mitzvah will likely never materialize.

So why do we read about it every year? Why do we gather men and women to remind ourselves about this theoretical obligation of annihilation? What is the drosh v’kabel schar—the message of this mitzvah? We all know the answer. Especially at this moment in Jewish history, especially after October 7^th and much of the world’s response to it, we know it all too well. This mitzvah serves as a powerful reminder. It teaches us that evil exists in the world, and some enemies, like Amalek, are driven by unrelenting hatred. They target the weak and vulnerable, motivated by a deep-seated animosity toward the Jewish people. We cannot approach such evil with the same moral framework we use for our own people or for our ethical non-Jewish neighbors.

This lesson is particularly relevant today, as we witness atrocities and rising antisemitism. Well-meaning, ethical individuals—Jewish and non-Jewish alike—often fail to understand the nature of true evil. Whether it’s certain Hollywood figures who don’t use their platforms to speak out at the Oscars or certain Jewish leaders, both political and religious, who unfairly criticize Israel, they fail to recognize Hamas for what it is. I actually don’t think that most of these people are self-hating Jews. Often, their failure to recognize the evil of Hamas stems from a good place: Jews, by definition, are merciful and compassionate. When they see destruction and suffering, their Jewish neshama cries out for the weaker side. I get it. That’s why all of us, each man and woman, need to hear the message of Amalek each and every year.

The mitzvah of Amalek reminds us to confront evil decisively. At the same time, it underscores that this does not define us as a nation. What defines us are the values of compassion, kindness, and mercy that permeate the Torah.

Hamas’ hatred is born of religious fanaticism—a barbaric, brutal hatred that is difficult for the modern mind to comprehend. But this is not analogous to the mitzvah of mechiyat Amalek. The command to destroy Amalek is practically inapplicable, while the obligation to remember that evil exists (zechirah) remains as crucial as ever. It serves as a counterbalance to our natural inclination toward mercy, reminding us that, in the face of true evil, we must stand firm and act with clarity.

Our identity as Jews is rooted in kindness and compassion. Yet once a year, we remind ourselves of the harsh reality that there are times when evil must be confronted—not because it defines us, but because our values demand it.