One positive command he gave us: You shall love and honor your

The words of Mary Antin—“One positive command he gave us: You shall love and honor your emperor. In every congregation a prayer must be said for the czar's health, or the chief of police would close the synagogue.”—carry the weight of memory, the voice of one who lived through exile, oppression, and the delicate balance of survival under a heavy hand. She speaks not merely of prayer, but of a command, a mandate enforced not by devotion but by fear. This positive command was not born of true reverence but imposed by authority, a demand for loyalty that bound faith to the will of the state.

The ancients knew well this tension between conscience and power. In Rome, citizens were commanded to burn incense to Caesar, to declare his divinity before they could trade, serve, or worship. For many, this was a small gesture, a mere formality; but for others, it was a violation of their deepest beliefs. Antin’s recollection of Jewish congregations in Russia echoes this same pattern: prayers spoken not from the heart but from necessity, lest the synagogue be silenced and the faithful scattered. Thus, her words illuminate the burden of those who must disguise survival beneath the language of loyalty.

History is filled with such moments of coerced devotion. Consider the Jews of medieval Spain, forced to convert publicly under pain of death, while secretly clinging to their ancient faith. Or think of early Christians in the catacombs, hiding from Roman persecution, refusing to let the state dictate the prayers of their lips. Antin’s tale is another chapter in this long story: that of a people preserving their identity even as they bowed outwardly to the demands of empire. Her mention of the chief of police closing the synagogue reminds us that the sacred was always under watch, chained by politics.

Yet even within such constraints, Antin finds irony in calling it a positive command. Perhaps it was positive in form—a rule written as if it were an act of good will—but in truth it was a command born of force. The lesson is that the words of power can be twisted: what is framed as “positive” may mask coercion, and what is called “love” may actually be fear. Her memory teaches us to look beyond the surface of decrees, to see the true spirit in which they are given.

But in her voice also lies the resilience of the oppressed. Though prayers for the czar were spoken, they did not erase the prayers whispered from the heart. Though loyalty was demanded, true faith endured beneath the surface. The positive command of empire could not crush the deeper commands of conscience. Here is the heroism of survival: to give enough to power to continue living, but never so much that the soul itself is surrendered.

The lesson for us is clear: beware when authority seeks to control not only your actions but your very words and beliefs. Understand the difference between loyalty born of love and loyalty imposed by fear. Preserve your integrity even under constraint, and know that survival itself can be an act of quiet resistance. Let your heart hold fast to what is true, even when your lips must yield to what is required.

So, dear listener, take Mary Antin’s words as both warning and inspiration. Know that the world has often demanded false prayers, false loyalties, and empty words. But remember also that the human spirit has always endured, carrying its faith, its truth, and its hope through even the darkest of ages. For no emperor, no police, no command can truly extinguish the prayers that burn in the hidden chambers of the heart.