Uri Schechter, a reserve officer who writes inspiring stories for a Hebrew publication called Giluy Daat, recently shared a story that cuts to the heart of Jewish faith.

A friend from his reserve unit called. He runs a small synagogue on a secular kibbutz, and lately something unexpected has been happening—people are returning to prayer after years away. But their Torah scrolls were dying, one broken and one torn.

Uri connected him with Rabbi Shlomo Raanan, founder of Ayelet HaShachar, an organization dedicated to bridging religious and secular Jews in Israel. Raanan asked one question: “Did someone from your kibbutz fall in the war?”

Yes. A young officer.

Raanan had a brand-new Sefer Torah ready. The donor wanted it dedicated to a fallen soldier.

The parents of the fallen soldier agreed to have the Torah scroll dedicated in memory of their son. Then the father said something that stopped everyone: “When our synagogue first opened, it was the Shabbat of our son’s bar mitzvah—parashat Vayera. He was the first person ever called up to the Torah in that place. This week is the anniversary of his death. It’s also parashat Vayera. And now a new Sefer Torah will arrive in his memory—same parasha, same place.”

Uri’s conclusion: “Divine precision. No mistakes.”

The Philosophy of Amalek

The Torah gives us an eternal command regarding Amalek:

The Hebrew words, asher karcha baderech, which is translated here as “he surprised you on the march,” literally mean “they happened upon you on the way.” The word karcha comes from the root mikreh—chance, randomness, accident. Amalek attacked Israel in the wilderness not just physically, but philosophically. Their assault carried a message: This is all random. Your escape from Egypt—chance. Your survival in the desert—luck. Your God—an illusion. History has no author. The universe has no plan.

Amalek is the voice that whispers: coincidence.

And we have an eternal command to destroy that voice. Not because it’s impolite or pessimistic, but because it’s a lie. The worldview of chance is the worldview of Amalek—and it’s the opposite of Jewish consciousness.

Those who know God know that nothing is by chance. Sometimes His hand is hidden, working through what looks like natural processes. Sometimes His hand is revealed, undeniable, impossible to miss.

This story is the second kind.

A donor wants to dedicate a Torah to a fallen soldier. At the exact same time, a kibbutz needs a Torah. Not just any kibbutz—one experiencing a spiritual awakening, where secular Jews are rediscovering prayer after years away.

Not just any soldier—a young officer from that exact community.

Not just any timing—the anniversary of his death, which falls on the exact Torah portion of his bar mitzvah, the day he first read from the Torah in that very building.

You can look at this and say: What an incredible coincidence.

Or you can recognize that “coincidence” is the voice of Amalek, trying to drain the meaning from a moment saturated with divine purpose.

The father understood. When he heard about the Torah, he didn’t just accept it—he wept at the precision. He saw the pattern: his son’s first Torah reading and his last Shabbat on earth, bridged by the arrival of a scroll bearing his name, returning to the exact location where his thirteen-year-old voice first carried the ancient words.

That’s not luck. That’s authorship.

Hidden and Revealed

Most of the time, God’s hand operates in concealment. We live in a world that looks like it runs on cause and effect, human decisions, and random events.

This is hester panim—the hiding of God’s face. It’s not that He’s absent. It’s that He’s working through the ordinary machinery of the world, allowing natural processes to unfold, giving us space to choose and act and live.

But occasionally—at crucial moments, when we need to see it—the veil lifts.

A phone call comes at the right time. A donor asks the right question. A calendar aligns with impossible precision. And suddenly you’re standing in front of something that cannot be explained by natural processes alone.

This is the revelation of God’s face for those who are willing to see it. Not a violation of nature, but a moment when the deeper pattern becomes visible, when the hidden hand shows itself long enough for you to recognize: I am here. I am orchestrating this. Pay attention.

Why Amalek Must Be Destroyed

The command to destroy Amalek is not about ancient history. It’s about destroying a way of seeing the world.

Amalek says: karcha—it happened to you by chance. Your survival is luck. Your victories are random. There is no pattern, no plan, no purpose.

Israel says: No. Nothing is by chance. Everything is providence—sometimes hidden, sometimes revealed, but always authored by the One who sees the end from the beginning.

When you look at this story and say “coincidence,” you’re speaking the language of Amalek. When you look at it and say “divine precision,” you’re speaking the language of Israel.

The war between these two perspectives is eternal. It’s the war between a universe that’s cold and random versus a universe that’s warm and intentional. Between a world where things just happen versus a world where things mean something.

Because when you believe in chance, you miss everything. You miss the phone call that came at exactly the right moment. The donor who asked exactly the right question. The calendar that spoke in precisely the language needed to transform grief into purpose.

You miss the hand of God reaching through the ordinary machinery of the world to say: I am here. I see you. Nothing about this is random.

Amalek in Our Time

Hamas attacked Israel on Simchat Torah, the day we celebrate the completion and renewal of the Torah cycle. They chose the day when families gathered in joy, when communities danced with Torah scrolls in their arms.

It was the attack of Amalek, striking when we were vulnerable, attempting to break our connection to the divine, to transform our celebration into mourning, our faith into despair.

And like Amalek, they carried a deeper message: This is all meaningless. Your God doesn’t protect you. Your Torah won’t save you. History is just violence and chance.

But Israel’s response is the eternal answer to Amalek.

A secular kibbutz begins returning to prayer. Broken Torah scrolls are replaced. A young soldier who fell defending his people is memorialized not with bitterness, but with a Torah scroll that arrives on the exact week of his bar mitzvah parasha, on the anniversary of his death, in the place where he first read as a boy.

Hamas sought to sever us from the Torah. Instead, Torah scrolls are being written, dedicated, brought into communities that have drifted away. The attack meant to destroy our faith became the catalyst for its renewal.

This is the war against Amalek. Not just a military battle, but a spiritual one. The choice between seeing chaos or seeing providence. Between believing in chance or recognizing the Author.

Every Shabbat on that kibbutz, when they open the ark, they’ll read from a scroll that appeared at exactly the right time. That Torah is physical proof: the world has an Author, timing has meaning, and what looks like coincidence is actually providence waiting for us to open our eyes.

“Remember what Amalek did to you… they happened upon you on the way.”

We remember. And we respond—not with the language of coincidence, but with the language of recognition.

Divine precision. No mistakes. No chance.

Only providence.