Amalek at the Crosswalk

The Boulevard Scroll and the Candy Contraband

For as many times as I’ve tried to find auspicious feathers in the way of Richard Bach while walking around town—

Saturday afternoon, July 19, I walk hand in hand with my daughter toward Walgreens, pursuing blood-pressure tablets for me and sugar-infused theatre contraband for her. We’re gonna see the Smurfs in a few. She monologues through overlapping cartoon subplots while traffic blunders indifferently down a four-lane divided busines zone. A woman in a Subaru performs thumb ballet on her phone while idling dead-center in the recently christened crosswalk, the one our town likely paid a quarter-million for, complete with solar-powered signage and decorative brick meant to suggest civilization. I remember, again, that most people here don’t walk—can’t walk, really—not for distance, not for purpose, not without an audible sigh and orthopedic consultation. I monitor my pulse like a CIA handler tracking a foreign asset, aware that Smurfs and synthetic dye demand chemical diplomacy between my arteries and the AMC’s speaker system. We run the classic parent-child smuggling operation: the kid’s old enough to carry a handbag of some kind, so let’s act natural and keep moving. The sidewalk radiates heat and suburban determinism, smells of recently murdered grass and mid-grade gasoline. Our errand carries the texture of routine, but ritual hides inside it—an ordinary quest waiting to rupture. And just before the fluorescent aisles and generics can frame the day, something in the grass yanks me sideways.

You see something like this on the streeet, you pick it up, amirite?

A block before the pharmacy, a scrap of parchment?—nah, beat-up, torn-out textbook page, a student book for sure because of the diacretics—catches my eye, half-buried in boulevard grass beside the crosswalk. Weather stains mottled the page, yet bold Hebrew characters still command attention. I crouch, tug it free from dry blades, and feel paper crackle like old leaves, but it’s still kinda damp. My daughter asks whether Sour Patch Kids still rank top priority, her voice loaded with eight-year-old urgency. I promise yes, slip the sheet into my pocket, and rise as cars pause to grant us passage. The find intrudes upon our candy quest, yet curiosity outweighs haste. Walgreens doors slide open soon after, though my thoughts already orbit the rescued text.

At home, I flatten the page upon the kitchen counter and read its heading, “Haftarat Zakhor,” a directive to remember. Scholars place this passage within I Samuel 15, where a prophet demands King Saul eradicate Amalek without mercy. The text recounts how Saul spares King Agag and choice livestock, claiming sacrifice plans as justification. Samuel responds with surgical language, declaring, “To obey holds greater value than sacrifice and to heed surpasses the fat of rams.” The narrative paints obedience as action completed, not gesture proposed. Saul’s partial compliance exposes a fracture between intent and integrity. The parchment radiates that tension across my custom granite countertop. And weren’t these a luxury at one point and not a must-have or you’re trash?

Kiddo asks me to read the page to her, curiosity flickering in that in-between space where kids wonder if a parent found something magical or just another piece of adult weirdness. I hover my iPhone above the text, let the camera decode the Hebrew into English, one ancient rebuke at a time. She listens as I narrate the prophet’s fury, the king’s cowardice, the sheep spared and the sword unsheathed. Her face never flinches. She shrugs, tells me it sounds like when grown-ups argue about stuff on the news, then returns to her cartoon without ceremony. The scroll may thunder with divine consequence, but she sees only dots and old paper.

The story uses Amalek as emblem of unreasoning hostility that thrives whenever leaders flinch. By sparing Agag, Saul preserves a seed of future violence rather than uprooting it. Samuel frames the lapse as betrayal disguised as piety, a lesson about excuses that masquerade as virtue. Obedience in this context demands decisive confrontation with corrosive forces, internal or external. Sacrifice without follow-through merely launders guilt beneath ritual smoke. The prophet’s verdict strips away optics and reveals unfinished duty. With that lens, the ancient reprimand directs attention toward today’s reality tunnel.

In Silicon Valley boardrooms, executives echo Saul when they trumpet existential AI threats while shipping unchecked code for profit. They commission ethics panels, publish white papers, and then accelerate model releases that amplify bias. Lobbyists water down regulation drafts even as press releases celebrate responsible innovation. The public watches confusion blossom, wondering who truly guards the algorithmic gate. Like Saul’s spared flock, unsafe systems roam because leaders treasure them more than the mandate for safety. Samuel’s voice would slice through that corporate theatre, calling half-measures betrayal. The tech horizon therefore testifies to how remembrance of Amalek still matters.

In Gaza and southern Israel, civilians endure bombardment while diplomats issue statements that evaporate before ordnance dust settles. Governments send limited aid yet continue arms sales, preserving both sides of the ledger. Leaders invoke security or proportionality to rationalize every delay toward ceasefire. Each postponed negotiation spares another Agag, promising next season’s tragedy. The pattern exposes compassion scripted for cameras, not trenches. Prophetic critique would condemn such selective mercy as complicity. Until decisive justice replaces rhetorical balance, the Amalek cycle repeats along that coast.

Ukraine’s defenders plead for air-defense batteries while alliance parliaments debate percentage points and escalation optics. Committees approve token shipments that signal solidarity yet leave gaps wide enough for cruise missiles. Politicians claim fiscal prudence or strategic patience, though front-line medics count the cost hourly. Partial support mirrors Saul’s calculus: enough obedience for applause, not enough for resolution. Each deferred decision gifts invaders momentum, the modern livestock spared for another sacrifice story. Prophetic accounting would label hesitation the true threat to peace. War, like Amalek, feeds on the convenient delay of those who know better.

At home, legislatures erode voting access under banners of integrity, a sleight that removes ballots rather than doubt. Officials cite public trust while gerrymandering districts into fortified incumbency. They laud democracy during speeches yet throttle it through procedural choke points. These engineered shortages of representation reflect Saul’s fear of the crowd and craving for control. Obedience to constitutional ideals demands expansion of participation, not contraction. Samuel’s standard would measure these maneuvers as faithless spectacle. The parchment on my counter seems to glow hotter when evening news covers such bills.

Climate summits generate ambitious targets that governments celebrate and then quietly miss with clockwork precision. Subsidies for fossil expansion hide beneath green rhetoric the way Saul hid Agag behind sacrificial intentions. Wildfires and floods issue reminders that nature tallies outcomes, not promises. Incremental pledges provide moral comfort yet allow methane and mercury to accumulate. Every postponed transition spares a polluting enterprise, prolonging planetary risk. Prophetic logic regards that delay as rebellion disguised as caution. Remembering Amalek therefore urges comprehensive action before the next deadline turns to ash.

The single page now rests on my kitchen counter, framed by cereal crumbs and unpaid utility envelopes. Its inked admonition radiates into household air, confronting my own catalogue of postponed choices. I consider projects shelved, apologies unsent, and policies I tolerated for comfort. The text reminds me that intent without completion equals self-deception. My daughter’s laughter from the living room underscores what genuine urgency feels like. She engages her world fully, without strategic delay. I breathe that lesson while the parchment keeps silent vigil.

Within minutes we will head toward the theater, hoodie pockets brimming with contraband gummies and ambition for bright blue creatures. Cartoons crackle on the screen while she counts down commercials, unaware of prophets or kings. I plan to leave the page where it waits, guarding the counter like a small stern oracle. The night promises laughter and sugar, yet memory of the grass-bound scroll follows me quietly. I commit to treat obedience as follow-through, not performative nod. Candy smuggling requires commitment; moral living demands even more. When the Smurfs fade to credits, I intend to open that page again and confront whatever Agag still stands within me.