The Ancient Enemy: What Bondi Beach Reveals About a Battle That Never Ended

 The Ancient Enemy: What Bondi Beach Reveals About a Battle That Never Ended

The images from Bondi Beach stopped me cold. Jewish families celebrating Hanukkah—the Festival of Lights—were attacked in broad daylight in Australia. Not in some conflict zone. Not in a dark alley. On a beach, in December, in one of the most cosmopolitan cities on earth.

We're witnessing something that defies purely sociological explanation.

Antisemitism is surging globally, and while hatred against any people group demands our complete condemnation and swift action, there's something uniquely persistent about this particular hatred. Something that has survived every civilization, every century, every attempt at eradication. As someone who studies patterns and root causes, I've come to believe this isn't merely a matter of cultural inheritance or political positioning. There's a spiritual dimension operating here that transcends rational analysis.

An Old Story Made New

This morning in church, the reading came from Exodus 17, and I couldn't escape the parallel. The Amalekites attacked the children of Israel as they emerged into the wilderness—specifically targeting the weak and vulnerable at the rear of the procession. Then came a second assault at Rephidim. This wasn't opportunistic raiding. This was systematic hatred aimed at annihilation.

God's response reveals something profound about His character: He declared He would wipe out the memory of Amalek from under heaven. The Almighty—patient, merciful, slow to anger—drew a line. There are forms of evil that provoke divine judgment precisely because they prey on the defenseless.

But here's what strikes me about this account. The battle wasn't won by Moses alone on the mountain, or Joshua alone in the valley. Victory required partnership—warriors fighting, intercessors praying, and Aaron and Hur holding up weary arms when Moses could no longer sustain them himself. God orchestrated triumph through collaboration, not isolation.

The Consequences of Incomplete Obedience

The story doesn't end in Exodus. It never does.

Centuries later, King Saul received explicit instructions to finish what Israel started—to eliminate the Amalekite threat completely. He failed. He spared King Agag, who fled to Shushan in Persia. Fast forward again. Haman the Agagite—a direct descendant of the king Saul should have executed—rises to power and engineers a plot to exterminate every Jew in the Persian Empire. The seed of Amalek, preserved through disobedience, became an existential threat once more. This is the pattern that haunts me: mercy extended to evil that refuses transformation becomes mercy weaponized against the innocent. God's patience creates space for repentance. When that space is exploited rather than honored, the consequences compound across generations.

The Vulnerability Factor

There's another thread in Exodus 17 worth examining. Just before the Amalekite attack, the Israelites were complaining about thirst. Their hearts had shifted from grumbling to contending—from frustration to pride. It was precisely in this moment of spiritual vulnerability that the enemy struck. I've seen this pattern in organizational leadership, in personal struggles, in spiritual warfare. The enemy doesn't attack when we're strong and vigilant. He waits for exhaustion, for distraction, for the moment when our defenses drop and our hearts turn inward.

The wilderness wasn't just a geographic location for Israel. It was a crucible that revealed what was inside them. And it's in our own wilderness seasons—when physical, emotional, or spiritual resources run thin—that we're most susceptible to attacks we'd otherwise deflect.

The Cost of Silence

Dietrich Bonhoeffer, writing from the heart of Nazi Germany, understood something about complicity: "Silence in the face of evil is itself evil: God will not hold us guiltless. Not to speak is to speak. Not to act is to act."

Martin Luther King Jr. echoed this insight from a different vantage point: "The ultimate tragedy is not the oppression and cruelty by the bad people but the silence over that by the good people."

Both men paid for these convictions with their lives.

The battle against antisemitism—and against hatred in all its forms—isn't fought only by those on the front lines. It's fought by those who refuse to look away. By those who speak when silence would be easier. By those who, like Aaron and Hur, position themselves to strengthen weary arms.

Raising the Banner

Exodus 17 closes with Moses building an altar and naming it *Yahweh-Nissi*—"The Lord Is My Banner." Then comes this declaration: "The Lord will have war with Amalek from generation to generation."

This isn't fatalism. It's clarity. Some battles persist across ages because the enemy's hatred endures. The question isn't whether we'll face this ancient adversary. The question is whether we'll stand.

Edmund Burke reportedly said, "The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing." Whether those exact words were his or not, the sentiment has proven true across every generation that's been tested.

The Jewish families on Bondi Beach weren't asking for special treatment. They were lighting candles and celebrating their heritage. They were doing what their ancestors had done for thousands of years, despite every attempt to stop them.

Our response—intercession, advocacy, solidarity, and refusing the comfort of silence—isn't peripheral to our faith. It's the substance of it. God invites us into partnership with His purposes, and those purposes have always included defending the vulnerable and standing against darkness.

The Lord is still my banner. And this war continues from generation to generation.

The question is simply this: which side of the battle line will we stand on?

Thoughts this Sunday morning - 

Shalom

Dr. Sam Kurien