Purim encompasses a paradox. On the one hand, we unashamedly celebrate the downfall of the wicked Haman - a descendant of the Amalekite nation whose memory the Torah commands us to "obliterate" - and exult in the victory of the Jews. On the other, we are specifically exhorted to blur the difference between "cursed be Haman and blessed be Mordecai" through drink and merriment; sending out an altogether different message of reconciliation and closure.

When Plymouth’s tiny Jewish community sold many of their antique artefacts at the end of last year to help pay for the upkeep of their 18th-century listed synagogue, there were the usual mutterings about Anglo-Jewry flogging off the family silver.

Historic items such as these often end up overseas; but at least some parts of the Plymouth collection were saved for the nation. They were bought by the British Museum in London and, now back from the conservators, they are going on view from Monday.

If you walk into a Liberal synagogue, you will find an array of leaflets written by the movement’s rabbinate on all kinds of subjects: ageing, animal welfare, biblical criticism, ethical eating, the environment, genetic research, Jewish marriage, lesbian and gay Jews and same-sex relationships, miracles, and much more. But, to date, although Shabbat is a central feature of Liberal Jewish life, apart from the siddur, there is no Liberal Judaism publication on Shabbat.

Tradition tells us that when the Israelites stood at Sinai and embraced the Torah, they were as converts. From that day till the present, the process of conversion entails a “Sinai moment”. By definition, just as the Israelites accepted upon themselves the obligation of mitzvot then, so too the modern-day convert must accept upon himself the same.

Last year, in a hotel outside Jerusalem, the movers and shakers in the Jewish world of development aid met for the inaugural conference on Jewish action for the world’s poorest inhabitants. On the first day I encountered a problem: we could not get a minyan together for prayer.

I turned to Abraham Burg, the former Knesset Speaker, and asked him in frustration, “Where are all the Orthodox aid workers?” “Aniye ircha kodmim,” he answered in sonorous Hebrew. “And the goyim (sic) come last of all!”

Shortly before the end of 2009, Pope Benedict XVI took the decision to advance the sainthood cause of Pius XII, the wartime pope whose silence on the Shoah has caused many a heated debate and polarised opinion over the years. This painful issue has been at the heart of contemporary Jewish-Christian disharmony on an international scale. However, a new commotion has broken out in recent days, at least in some quarters of the Orthodox blogosphere. And what is this new aspect of Jewish-Christian relations which is causing such consternation? Answer: the praise of a rabbi called Jesus.

A person’s table is compared to an altar — just as an altar atones for our sins so does genuine hospitality. But for increasing numbers of people, their table is an altar on which they are sacrificing their health.

I cannot think of any festival that highlights the differences among Jews as much as Chanucah. For some it is the triumph of the religion over its enemies. To others it is the plucky victory of a small band of fighting men who stood up to an empire. And it can also be seen as yet another example of how often in Jewish history, what starts off as idealism descends into self- interest and corruption.

EH Carr, the English historian, said that before you study history, first you must study the historian. We all observe events and objects through our own prisms, and so it is with Chanucah.