Parshas Mishpatim (Shekalim) 5786
- Torah Tavlin
- 4 hours ago
- 3 min read
ואנשי קדש תהיון לי ובשר בשדה טרפה לא תאכלו לכלב תשלכון אתו ... (כב-ל)
Chazal in Maseches Yoma teach us that a heavenly fire rested upon the mizbeach throughout both Temples, yet its appearance differed dramatically. In the First Bais HaMikdash, the fire descended from above in the majestic form of a lion, reflecting the era’s spiritual fullness. Built by Shlomo HaMelech of Shevet Yehudah, likened by Yaakov Avinu to a lion - “Gur Aryeh Yehudah” - this Temple embodied royalty, prophecy, and the radiance of the Shechina. By contrast, explains the Maharsha zt”l, the Second Bais HaMikdash arose under Persian rule, without a line of Malchus Bais Dovid, Nevuah, the Aron HaKodesh, or the Urim v’Tumim. Chazal in Rosh Hashanah associate Persia with the dog, a loyal yet lowly creature. The heavenly fire appeared as a dog to mirror the diminished spiritual stature of that period.
Yet there is another layer to this symbolism, one that emerges from a remarkable narrative preserved in the writings of the Abarbanel zt”l, and this is what he wrote: “As for Koresh, his beginnings and deeds, Yosef Ben Gurion did not remember a single thing about him, and I saw fit to tell you here what is written about him in the books of the kings of Persia, and what the Latin writers brought in their chronicles.” He continues and explains that according to ancient Persian chronicles, Koresh (Cyrus) the very king who authorized the rebuilding of the Temple had an extraordinary origin story. His grandfather, King Astyages, had only one daughter, who secretly married a nobleman of the realm. When Astyages discovered the truth, his fury was boundless. He saw the marriage as a political betrayal. The prince was seized and thrown into prison, where he languished until his death. His daughter, once the apple of his eye, was confined to a guarded chamber, isolated from the world. And when she gave birth to a son, the king’s rage only deepened. To him, the child was not a grandson but a threat - a rival claimant to the throne, born of defiance and disobedience.
Astyages issued a chilling decree: the infant must not live. He summoned one of his trusted servants and handed him the newborn, wrapped in a royal cloth. The servant was commanded to take the child into the wilderness, far from human habitation, and leave him there to perish. The man obeyed, though his heart trembled. Here was a royal heir who was fated to die. He carried the infant deep into a forest known for its wild beasts, a place where no child could possibly survive. There, beneath the shade of ancient trees, he laid the baby on the ground and walked away, unable to look back.
But fate had other plans. As the child cried in the stillness of the forest, a lone dog wandered into the clearing. Some versions describe her as a wild dog, hardened by the struggle for survival; others imagine her as a domesticated animal that had strayed from a nearby settlement. Whatever her origin, she approached the infant not with predatory instinct but with a strange, maternal tenderness. She sniffed him, circled him, and then lay beside him, offering warmth. When he cried from hunger, she nursed him. When danger approached, she growled and stood guard over her tiny human charge.
Miraculously, the child survived, grew strong, became a superior archer and eventually gathered around him a band of followers. When Astyages, now old and weakened, heard rumors of a mysterious young warrior gathering followers, he sensed danger. He sent soldiers to eliminate him, but the young man - Koresh - defeated them in a defiant and ruthless battle. He marched on the royal city, overthrew the king, and claimed the throne that had been denied him since birth.
Because he had been raised by a dog, the chronicles say, he was called “Kyros,” a name associated with the dog in Persian. The animal that had saved him became part of his identity, a symbol of loyalty, survival, and unexpected providence. If Koresh, the benefactor of the Jewish people, bore this canine symbolism, then the dog-shaped fire of the Second Bais HaMikdash takes on a new meaning. It becomes not merely a symbol of diminished spiritual stature, but also a gesture of gratitude. The Yerushalmi teaches that one must acknowledge goodness even to a dog. How much more so to a king whose kindness enabled the return to Jerusalem and the rebuilding of the holy Temple. The fire’s form thus becomes a subtle tribute to Koresh himself, a recognition of the unlikely instrument through which divine mercy was delivered.