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Yeshivat Har Etzion

PARASHAT TETZAVE

By Rav Moti Novick

            A major theme that underlies many facets of the Temple service is that of “tamid,” meaning “constant” or “regular.”  We heard this term used this past Shabbat in reference to the placement of the lechem ha-panim (show-bread) on the shulchan (25: 30).  It similarly appears in the first verse of this week’s portion regarding the lighting of the menora, and twice again toward the end of the portion (29: 38, 30: 8) in the contexts of the daily sacrificial offerings (known as the temidim, from this root) and the incense offered daily on the inner altar.

It is not surprising to find that the Temple ritual is grounded in the concepts of constancy and regularity, since these ideas are central to our observance and religious outlook in general.  Judaism rejects the idea that worship of God is something to be done when an individual feels moved to do so.  Quite the opposite—it is the job of every individual to feel moved to do so on a regular basis, not sporadically or only in emotionally charged times.  In the same way that a relationship between husband and wife is forged not by the emotional rush of the wedding but by the constancy and commitment of the marriage which follows, so too a person’s relationship with God is formed by the devotion shown to Him every single day.

We have used the terms “constant” and “regular” as synonyms in defining the term “tamid,” but this may in fact be a debate between two opinions in the mishna in Tractate Menachot 99b regarding how the show-bread was replaced each week on the shulchan.  The tanna kamma believes that a new tray must be slid in place as the old one is slid out so that the shulchan not be without the bread for even a moment.  R. Yose, however, allows the replacement to be performed in a normal fashion; even if there is no bread on the shulchan for a few minutes, this is not a violation of the requirement of “tamid.”  The point of debate may be whether “tamid” means “constant” in which case the shulchan cannot be without bread at all, or “regular” in which case a gap of some moments would not be problematic.

Indeed, this understanding of the debate seems to emerge clearly from the comment of R. Ami in the gemara immediately following:  “From the opinion of R. Yose we learn that even if a person learns only a chapter [referring to the recital of Shema] in the morning and a chapter in the evening, he has fulfilled the commandment, ‘This book of the law shall not depart out of thy mouth’ (Joshua 1: 8).”  R. Ami understands that the verse from Joshua reflects a similar concept of tamid in reference to learning Torah.  Clearly, one who recites only the Shema and learns no other Torah throughout the day cannot be said to be “constantly” involved in Torah, only “regularly” so.  If R. Yose rejects the need for absolute constancy in order to fulfill the directive of tamid, then he is clearly satisfied with regularity in this regard.

Again making the transition from the Temple ritual to religious life in general, the idea that tamid may be fulfilled by regularity rather than absolute constancy is a very important one in our daily lives.  A person’s priorities are not always reflected in how he allocates his time, because by necessity he may have to spend more time on something he considers less important.  It is rather the ways in which a person is careful to regularly spend time—even if it is a short amount of time each day or week—that reflect his true priorities.  The half-hour or forty minutes set aside each morning for tefilla, the ten minutes here and there for learning—if these are adhered to regularly and stubbornly, and if they reflect an internal desire to spend more time in these pursuits if it were available, then they can mean much more than the short time they fill.  They can characterize a person’s entire relationship with God as one which is tamid.

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“And you shall make holy garments for Aaron thy brother, for splendor and for beauty.” (28: 2)

The first half of this week’s portion lists the detailed description of the bigdei kehuna, the four garments worn by the kohanim (with four additional ones for the kohen gadol) during their performance of the Temple service.  The halakha treats these garments not as mere adornments but as an integral part of the kohen’s identity as a kohen—“when their garments are not upon them, their kehuna (i.e., their status as kohanim) is not upon them” (Tractate Zevachim 17b).  This does not apply to laws of the kohen such as receiving the first aliya to the Torah or the prohibition against contact with a corpse, but is restricted to the Temple, where a kohen who performs avoda (ritual service) without the garments upon him is subject to the severe penalty of a non-kohen who performs avoda.

The verse at the beginning of the portion describes the purpose of the garments as being “for splendor and for beauty” (le-khavod u'le-tifaret), and the materials used in making these garments—gold, linen, and valuable dyes of blue, purple, and scarlet—point toward this desired end.  However, one of the garments seems to have a different purpose.  After a summary verse toward the end of the discussion of the garments (28: 41), the Torah adds, as if as an afterthought:  “And you shall make them linen pants (mikhnasayim) to cover the flesh of their nakedness; from the loins even unto the thighs they shall reach.  And they shall be upon Aaron, and upon his sons, when they go in unto the tent of meeting, or when they come near unto the altar to minister in the holy place; that they bear not iniquity, and die; it shall be a statute forever unto him and unto his seed after him.” (28: 42-3).  The mikhnasayim, it seems, are meant not to achieve splendor or beauty, but rather the much more basic need to “cover the flesh.”

Rav Aharon Lichtenstein has pointed out that the genesis of the notion of clothing occurred in two stages.  After Adam and Eve first eat from the etz ha-da’at (the Tree of Knowledge), they make for themselves rudimentary girdles (chagorot) out of fig leaves (Bereishit 3: 7).  Later, after God confronts them and expels them from the Garden of Eden, He makes them leather garments (kotnot or—3: 21).  A human being, in order to maintain a minimal degree of privacy, possesses a basic need of being covered; this explains the hasty production of the fig-leaf girdles.  On another level, however, clothing is the symbol of a qualitative distinction between human being and animal.  Clothing is important not just for what it covers but for what it reveals; it is the medium through which an individual presents himself to the world.  We all take for granted just how much we can tell about a person we meet on the street just from how he or she is dressed.  Though Adam and Eve did not know it at the time, their consumption from the etz ha-da’at meant not only that they had gained a sense of privacy and decency, but that they had become a species altogether removed from the animal kingdom.  Thus, when God makes them more substantive clothes, He fashions them from leather, signifying the essence of clothing as a distinguishing feature of humankind.

The purpose of the bigdei kehuna is foremost the establishment of an aura of “splendor and beauty.”  Without them, dressed as anyone else who does not perform sacred duties in the Temple, the kohen is not a kohen.  In addition to that, care must be taken that the most basic function of clothing is not omitted, and the mikhnsayim fill this need.  The Torah singles out the omission of this garment as a capital offense (verse 43). As Tosafot point out (Zevachim ibid.), this is not at all the same offense as the omission of any of the other garments, which represents (as explained above) a deficiency in kehuna; a kohen who does not wear mikhnasayim and reveals his nakedness in the Temple lacks a more fundamental component of what distinguishes human from animal.

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This week’s portion closes with a description of the construction of the incense altar (mizbach ketoret—30: 1-10).  Many commentators are bothered by the placement of this description, whose rightful place seems to be four chapters ago, alongside the descriptions of the other sacred utensils (including the sacrificial altar [mizbach nechoshet], the seeming counterpart to the mizbach ketoret).  Why did the Torah wait until here, the tail end of this entire mikdash-related unit, to describe the mizbach ketoret?

Nachmanides (the Ramban) addresses this question in his commentary (30: 1).  His explanation is somewhat cryptic as he seems to allude to Kabbalistic concepts, but he points clearly to a strange dialectic regarding the offering of the incense.  On the one hand, the burning of the incense requires the utmost care and precision, and laxity or presumptuousness relating to this ritual can bring instant death.  This is what happened to Aharon’s sons Nadav and Avihu (Vayikra 10: 1-2) as well as to Korach and his followers (Bemidbar 16: 35).  Centuries later, King Uziyahu suffered leprosy when he dared to offer the incense (Divrei ha-Yamim 2 26: 19-20), and Chazal interpret a verse in Yeshayahu (6: 1) speaking of Uziyahu’s death as actually referring to this incident.  On the other hand, the incense seems to have curing and protective abilities.  The kohen gadol can enter the Holy of Holies on Yom Kippur only when “shielded” by a cloud of incense (Vayikra 16: 12-13).  After the dramatic Divine punishment against Korach and his followers and the subsequent accusations leveled at Moshe and Aharon by the nation, a lethal plague ensued which was only stopped when Aharon brought incense into the camp (Bemidbar 17: 11-13).

While the conflicting messages about the power and purpose of the incense are difficult to reconcile, the underlying theme seems to be that the incense represents a much more direct and immanent encounter with God than that which we are used to, greater even than the “usual” encounter with God within the Temple.  This interpretation is borne out by the first two verses of Psalm 141:  “A Psalm of David.  LORD, I have called You; make haste unto me; give ear unto my voice, when I call unto You.  Let my prayer be set forth as incense before You (tikon tefilati ketoret lefanekha), the lifting up of my hands as the evening sacrifice.”  King David, in describing the depth of his personal supplication to God (a common theme in his Psalms), compares it first to an incense offering.  The ramifications of this enhanced encounter can be positive or negative, depending on its appropriateness and on the manner in which it is carried out, but either way these ramifications are more extreme and intense than usual.

In placing the description of the incense altar at the end of the discussion of the mikdash, the Torah may be making a point about the limitations of the mikdash.  Since the mikdash is meant to enhance the relationship between the Jewish people and God and to bring the nation together in its Divine service, its emphasis is on community-centered activity.  The menorah, shulchan, and sacrificial mizbe’ach are all utensils through which the communal service (avodat ha-tzibbbur) is carried out.  Of course, what happens on a communal level affects every individual as well.  But while the mikdash can facilitate each individual’s ability to form a personal relationship with God, ultimately the forging of such a relationship lies in the hands of the individual himself.  Thus the Torah makes the point that the mizbach ketoret is not a central object in the mikdash.  Even though the kohen’s offering of incense on this altar each day is part of the communal service, the incense is really a symbol of the intense personal encounter, and as such its altar does not have the same standing as the other sacred objects.  As the Meshekh Chokhma points out in addressing our question, even if the mizbach ketoret is entirely absent, the incense can be offered on the ground where this altar is meant to stand (Zevachim 59a).

It is always difficult for us, living millennia after the destruction of the most recent Temple, to find meaning in the mikdash-related portions of the Torah.  To the extent that we find meaning, the price paid is generally a sense of tragedy that this meaning is purely theoretical in our days.  The lesson with which the Torah concludes these chapters is a timeless one.  No amount of spiritual encouragement from the outside—be it in the form of a Temple, a synagogue, a yeshiva, or an event—can substitute for the work every individual must perform in order to build and develop a personal connection to God.

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It has been noted that the name of Moshe, whose yahrzeit we commemorate today, is absent from this week’s portion.  In this respect the portion of Tetzave is unique among the entire middle three books of the Torah (in Sefer Devarim, Moshe’s name does not appear in the portions of Ekev, Re’eh, Shoftim, and Ki Tetze).  The explanation generally given for this anomaly is a statement made by Moshe in next week’s portion, in the aftermath of the sin of the Golden Calf (32: 32):  “Yet now, if You will forgive their sin-; and if not, blot me, I pray Thee, out of Your book which You have written.”  Of course, the sin was forgiven (and in any event God seems to reject Moshe’s request in the subsequent verse), but since the words of a tzaddik have force unconditionally (see, e.g., Bereishit 31: 32), Moshe’s name was “erased” from the last portion preceding this statement.

Moshe’s plea to God to forgive the nation reflects a dramatic stage in his leadership of the Jewish people (for an insightful and illuminating analysis of the 40-year relationship between Moshe and the Jewish people, see R. Moshe Lichtenstein’s book Tzir ve-Tzon).  Moshe accepted the responsibility of being a leader only with great reluctance, stemming both from his personal handicap of poor speech and from his doubts about the worthiness of the nation.  At the burning bush, when he complains (4:1), “But, behold, they will not believe me, nor hearken unto my voice; for they will say: The LORD has not appeared unto you,” God afflicts him with leprosy to indicate that he spoke inappropriately about the Jewish people (Rashi on 4: 6).  When the Jews turn on him in anger after Pharaoh’s initial intensification of the decrees (5: 20-23), Moshe expresses doubts about the success of his entire mission.  Even after the Exodus, when the Jews complain vociferously about the lack of water in the desert and question the very purpose of leaving Egypt, the Torah relates the following exchange (17: 4-5):  “And Moshe cried unto the LORD, saying: 'What shall I do unto this people? they are almost ready to stone me.' And the LORD said unto Moses: 'Pass on before the people, and take with you of the elders of Israel…”  Rashi quotes from the Tanchuma that God was hinting to Moshe that his words again reflected a poor opinion of the people—“pass on before the people” and see if they will stone you, in accordance with your accusation.

And yet, despite this pessimism—which was not entirely misplaced, as indicated by numerous further tragedies including the sin of the Golden Calf, the sin of the Spies, the rebellion of Korach, and the breakdown at Ba’al Pe’or—Moshe accepted the role of leader and acted it out with single-minded devotion.  When God makes him an offer to abandon the nation and become the progenitor of a new one (32: 10), Moshe’s response is unequivocal.  He wants nothing for himself and focuses entirely on the forgiveness of the nation.  “If You don’t forgive them, erase me from Your book”—if the Jewish nation has no future, then neither does Moshe.  The idea of starting a new nation is not even considered.  Moshe’s personal identity is inextricably linked with his mission as a leader of the descendants of Avraham, Yitzchak, and Ya’akov.

The force of the request to be “erased from God’s book” is further compounded in the Chizkuni’s understanding of this verse, based on the gemara in Rosh ha-Shana 16b.  He claims that the “book” referred to here is not the Torah (which had not yet been written down) but rather the Heavenly “book of life” in which the righteous are inscribed at the start of every year.  In other words, Moshe was not merely emphasizing that his future was linked with that of the people, but that his very life would lack meaning if the historical and spiritual destiny of the Jewish people was not realized.  Along these lines, the Midrash even links Moshe’s words here to his distraught plea in Bemidbar (11:14-15) when the Jews complained about the lack of meat in the desert:  “I am not able to bear all this people myself alone, because it is too heavy for me. And if You deal thus with me, kill me, I pray Thee, out of hand, if I have found favor in Your sight; and let me not look upon my wretchedness.”

It is the tragedy of the Jews’ wanderings in the desert that they did not fully appreciate Moshe during his lifetime.  Only in retrospect can we fully realize how much he contributed to the development of our nation and how intensely he was devoted to his flock.  Perhaps it is fitting that the portion which lacks his name at least begins with the word “ve-ata”—“and you,” a reference to Moshe.  Even if he is not mentioned explicitly, Moshe’s influence and contribution are always there, guiding us forward and upward.

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At the end of Hilkhot Megilla in the Mishneh Torah, the commentary Hagahot Maimuniyot quotes a fascinating opinion of R. Amram Gaon.  According to this opinion, the Al ha-Nissim prayer should not be recited in the amida of ma’ariv on Purim night because at that point the megilla has yet to be read.  Only after the reading of the megilla can we insert Al ha-Nissim in our prayers and in the birkat ha-mazon.  The Hagahot Maimuniyot reject this unusual idea, pointing out that the reading of the megilla should be no different from the recitation of Kiddush on any chag, which takes place only after ma’ariv but still does not hold up the recitation of the prayers unique to the chag.  Even though it is not part of the accepted halakha, can the stance of R. Amram Gaon be justified?

It is not difficult to see that the reading of Megillat Esther plays a much more central role in our celebration of Purim than does the reading of the Torah, or of the other megillot, on the other chagim in our calendar.  One unique feature that stands out immediately is the fact that the megilla is read twice.  A glance at the Rambam’s Hilkhot Megilla reveals that the lion’s share of the two chapters that comprise the laws of Purim is devoted to the details of the reading of the megilla; in fact, the Rambam does not mention any other aspect of Purim until two-thirds of the way through the second chapter!

The Griz (R. Yitzchak Ze’ev Soloveitchik, the “Brisker Rav,” 1887-1959) points out that the uniqueness of the megilla among other portions of Tanakh read in public is reflected in the laws governing the writing of the megilla.  For instance, the Rambam does not require the parchment on which the megilla will be written to be processed with the explicit intent of using it for this purpose (ibud lishma), an indispensable requirement with regard to a Torah scroll.  In short, the Griz concludes, the public reading performed on other holidays is a reading of some portion of kitvei ha-kodesh (“the sacred writings,” referring to all of Tanakh) relevant to the day.  Megillat Esther, though it happens to be a part of the kitvei ha-kodesh like any other book of Tanakh, is not read on Purim in this capacity.  It is an independent requirement, and does not need to meet all the criteria that kitvei ha-kodesh are required to meet (e.g., ibud lishma).  He does not elaborate on the nature of this requirement.

It may be suggested that the reading of the megilla on Purim is indispensable for the celebration of the holiday.  Purim is the first rabbinic holiday aside from the four fast days commemorating different stages of the destruction of the Temple.  Even if the Sages can enact days of fasting and mourning after a national tragedy, is it at all clear that they have the power to enact a joyous holiday?  Chazal may have felt it appropriate to “kick off” Purim each year by recounting the miracle so that we too can feel the joy and exhilaration of the miraculous victory granted to us by God against our foes.  When we read the Torah on, say, the first day of Pesach, we also read about the miracle of the day (yetziat mitzrayim), but the celebration of the day stands as an independent—and Biblical—obligation even in the absence of that recollection.  On Purim, in contrast, the retelling of the story may serve as an impetus and a justification for the entire holiday.

We can return with this idea to explain the enigmatic opinion of R. Amram Gaon.  Until the megilla is read, there can be no celebration of Purim, and therefore Al ha-nissim is omitted from the evening service.  Only once we have read the megilla does Purim truly begin.  Tomorrow we will show by examining the verses of the megilla itself that the megilla may indeed play this central role in our yearly celebration of Purim even though, as must be re-emphasized, the opinion of R. Amram Gaon is not accepted as halakhic practice.

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We discussed yesterday the unique nature of the reading of the megilla on Purim as a much more central element in the celebration of the day than any other reading from Tanakh on its corresponding holiday.  We suggested that the reading of the megilla is in fact necessary as an impetus and motivation for the other mitzvot of Purim.  Today we will see how the megilla itself, in relating the story of the beginnings of Purim as a holiday, may allude to its own centrality in the identity of that holiday.

The acceptance of Purim as a holiday is related in chapter 9 of Megillat Esther as a process which occurred in stages (see, e.g., R. Nati Helfgott’s article “Ma Bein Purim le-Chanuka?” appearing in the periodical Alon Shevut #150).  In the immediate aftermath of the great victory, the Jews engaged in spontaneous celebration (9:16-17):  “And the other Jews that were in the king’s provinces gathered themselves together, and stood for their lives, and had rest from their enemies, …on the thirteenth day of the month Adar, and on the fourteenth day of the same they rested, and made it a day of feasting and gladness.”  We focus here on two subsequent stages in which the megilla itself played a role in the process.

In the first stage (9:20-28), Mordechai ensures that the celebration becomes a yearly event by sending messages to all Jewish communities: “And Mordecai wrote these things, and sent letters unto all the Jews that were in all the provinces of the king Achasverosh, both near and far, to enjoin them that they should keep the fourteenth day of the month Adar, and the fifteenth day of the same, yearly, that they should make them days of feasting and gladness, and of sending portions one to another, and gifts to the poor. And the Jews took upon them to do as they had begun, and as Mordecai had written unto them…”  What exactly were these “letters” (sefarim)?  According to Rashi, these were nothing less than copies of the megilla itself.  That is, Mordechai transformed Purim from a spontaneous celebration at the time of the victory into a yearly celebration by distributing copies of the megilla to be read each year.  As verse 28 explicates, “and that these days should be remembered and kept (nizkarim ve-na’asim) throughout every generation.”  The Talmud Yerushalmi (quoted by Rashi) explains that “remembered” refers to the reading of the megilla, and “kept” refers to the other commandments of Purim.  Purim can only be celebrated if it is first “remembered”—if the megilla is read so that the euphoria of the Jews of ancient Persia can be revived in order to generate a new celebration.

In the second stage (9:32), the megilla became a sacred text:  “And the commandment of Esther confirmed these matters of Purim; and it was written in the book.”  Rashi quoting the gemara in Megilla 7a explains that this refers to the admission of Megillat Esther into the collection of kitvei ha-kodesh, or sacred texts, a precursor to what we know of today as the Tanakh.  Thus, in the prior stage, when Mordechai sent out copies of the megilla to be read as an indispensable part of the annual celebration of Purim, the megilla was not yet considered a sacred text!  This proves that indeed the reading of the megilla on Purim has nothing to do with the fact that the megilla is one of the kitvei ha-kodesh (in contrast to the public readings performed on all other holidays) but is rather an independent requirement, a fact whose halakhic ramifications we mentioned yesterday in the name of the Brisker Rav.  The nature of this requirement, if our reading of these verses is correct, is nothing less than the instrument by which Purim is perpetuated as a holiday.  The only way that we can continue to celebrate the victory of the Jews of Shushan thousands of years after the fact is by first reliving that victory and the miracles that allowed it to happen.  The “nizkarim” must precede the “na’asim.”

It is interesting to note that Purim was actually accepted as a yearly celebration even before the first of the two stages just described:  “Therefore do the Jews of the villages, that dwell in the unwalled towns, make the fourteenth day of the month Adar a day of gladness and feasting, and a good day, and of sending portions one to another” (9:19).  The specific contribution of Mordechai, and the crucial difference between this verse and verse 22 quoted above, will be discussed next week.

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The reading of Parashat Zakhor on the Shabbat before Purim is a fulfillment of the Biblical command to “remember (zakhor) what Amalek did unto you by the way as you came forth out of Egypt” (Devarim 25:17).  Chazal explained that this “remembrance” is not an individual mental act but rather an active recollection by reading aloud from a Torah scroll in a public forum.  As opposed to the general Torah reading, which is a communal obligation (chovat ha-tzibbur) but not an obligation which devolves upon the individual (chovat ha-yachid), the reading of Parashat Zakhor is an individual obligation.  Thus, while in general someone who cannot make it to synagogue for whatever reason is not obligated to gather a minyan in his home for keriat ha-Torah, he must do so in order to hear Parashat Zakhor.

The nature of this commandment can be understood in two ways.  The obligation to remember may be linked to the other commandment regarding Amalek (mentioned at the end of Parashat Zakhor):  “you shall blot out the remembrance of Amalek from under heaven; you shall not forget.”  The Ramban in his commentary on these verses seems to stress the link between these two commandments—the purpose of remembering and keeping the memory alive is to ensure that future generations not be lax in physically wiping out Amalek.  Some of the rishonim who listed the 613 commandments did not even count zekhirat Amalek as a separate commandment, subsuming it instead in the commandment to destroy Amalek.  Alternatively, it may be that remembering is an independent requirement, because remembering allows us to assimilate the lessons of history.  When we emphasize the importance of remembering the Holocaust, it is not for the purpose of bringing its perpetrators to justice but rather (in addition to perpetuating the memory of its victims) to learn from it the timeless lessons of the evils of anti-Semitism and ethnic hatred, and the fragile position of the Jew in gentile society.  Similar lessons can be gleaned from the story of Amalek.

It may be that the Magen Avraham and the Mishna Berura debate precisely this point.  The Magen Avraham (685: 1) holds that one who does not hear Parashat Zakhor can fulfill his obligation by hearing the Torah reading on Purim day, in which we read the Amalek story itself (Shemot 17: 8-16).  The Mishna Berura, basing himself on the commentary of the Ramban mentioned earlier, rejects this view, pointing out that the Amalek story makes no mention of the obligation to obliterate Amalek.  The Magen Avraham seems to believe that the requirement to remember is an independent one.

Another issue which may depend on this question is the opinion of the Sefer ha-Chinukh (commandment 603) that women are exempt from the obligation to recall Amalek because they are not obligated to participate in battle against Amalek.  This opinion clearly assumes a strong link between remembering and acting, in line with the Ramban and the Mishna Berura.  This opinion is not shared by other authorities, and in practice women are equally obligated to hear Parashat Zakhor.

The Minchat Chinukh and other acharonim are puzzled by the Chinukh’s argument, even assuming the link between recalling and destroying Amalek.  The halakha obligates even women to participate in a milchemet mitzva (obligatory battle), and doesn’t the fight against Amalek fall into this category?  R. Yaakov Etlinger (author of the Aruch la-Ner) suggests that the obligation of women to participate in a milchemet mitzva refers only to the conquest of the Land of Israel from the Canaanite nations, not to the fight against Amalek which occurs subsequently.

The idea of distinguishing between the obligation to fight Amalek and the obligation to fight the Canaanite nations as part of the conquest of the Land also seems to emerge from the Rambam.  In his Mishneh Torah, the Rambam mentions these two war-related commandments in immediate succession (Hilkhot Melakhim 5: 4-5).  However, he adds at the end of his discussion of the Canaanite nations that “they and their memory have died out,” and makes no parallel statement with regard to Amalek.  Perhaps the Rambam considers Amalek to be more than a specific ethnic tribe, but rather a timeless group spanning history, bound together by the common ideology of anti-Semitism and hatred.  Seen in this light, the obligation to destroy Amalek takes on an entirely new character.  It may buttress R. Etlinger’s claim that women are not obligated to participate in destroying Amalek (since it lacks the urgent, immediate character of a war for immediate survival).  More significantly, though, it provides a new basis on which to link the obligation to remember with the obligation to destroy.  If destroying Amalek is really a battle against the adherents to an ideology, then how can we continue to identify those adherents if we forget the ideology itself?  Remember the events, but more so, remember the ideas that allowed those events to happen.  Even if people die, the ideas live on, and they can be far more dangerous.