Parshas Tetzaveh (Zachor) 5786
- Torah Tavlin
- Feb 28
- 3 min read
בשנת שלוש למלכו עשה משתה לכל שריו ועבדיו חיל פרס ומדי הפרתמים ושרי המדינות לפניו ... (אסתר א-ג)
“In the days of Achashveirosh.” The Megillah opens with a description of a royal feast unlike any other - a display of extravagance meant to glorify King Achashveirosh’s wealth and power. The tables groaned under the weight of delicacies, golden vessels stolen from the Bais HaMikdash sparkled, and every desire was indulged. Yet, the seforim hakedoshim teach us that beneath all the splendor and glorification, lay a worldview of pure self-indulgence. Each person was encouraged to drink “according to his will,” to satisfy himself, to think only of his own pleasure. It was a banquet of taking, not giving; of isolation, not unity. The Yom Tov of Purim, however, transforms the very notion that the Seudas Achashveirosh projects. Our Jewish seudah is built on chessed - mishloach manos, matanos la’evyonim, shared joy, achdus. Where Achashveirosh’s feast celebrated the self, the Purim seudah celebrates the other. Where his banquet fed the ego, ours feeds the soul.
There is a well-known story told about a certain king who ruled over a large kingdom, with numerous servants and wise men. He once turned to his Jewish adviser with a question that had clearly been weighing on him. “Tell me,” he said, leaning forward on his throne, “what distinguishes your people from all the others? Why are you referred to as the ‘Chosen People’?”
The adviser, a wise and cautious man, immediately sensed danger in the king’s inquiry. Questions about chosenness can be misunderstood, twisted into arrogance or suspicion. So he answered gently, “Your Majesty, some truths are better seen than spoken. If you will follow my instructions, you will understand.” Intrigued, the king agreed.
The very next day, the palace staff was ordered to prepare a banquet unlike any the kingdom had ever seen. A magnificent table stretched across the great hall, draped in embroidered cloth and illuminated by towering candelabras. Platters overflowed with delicacies from every corner of the realm. The aroma alone was enough to make a person’s mouth water.
The adviser then asked the king to summon his non-Jewish ministers, generals, and nobles to partake in the feast. When they had taken their seats, he announced, “Friends, thank you for joining us today. You may eat whatever you wish - but you may not touch the food with your hands. You may use only the utensils provided.” Only then did the guests notice the awkward utensils laid beside each plate: enormous spoons and forks, absurdly long and unwieldy, more like ceremonial staffs than dining tools. A murmur of confusion rippled through the hall. The guests tried every angle, every trick, every contortion. They stretched their arms, twisted their wrists, leaned back, leaned forward, even attempted to fling food into their mouths. But no matter how they maneuvered, the food slipped, toppled, or fell short. Not a single bite reached its intended palate. The hall filled with groans, muttered curses, and the clatter of failed attempts. Eventually, the guests gave up - hungry, irritated, and defeated - surrounded by abundance yet unable to benefit from it. The king watched silently, puzzled but patient.
The following day, the adviser arranged a second banquet, equally lavish, this time with kosher food prepared according to strict Jewish law. The table was set with the same oversized utensils, the same rules, the same impossible challenge. But the Jewish guests, upon hearing the instructions, did not panic or despair. They exchanged knowing glances, smiled, and without hesitation began to act. Each person lifted a portion of food with the long utensil and extended it across the table to feed the person sitting opposite. That person, in turn, fed someone else. In moments, the hall was transformed. Laughter bubbled up. Conversations flowed. People who moments earlier had been strangers were now partners in a shared dance of giving and receiving. The king’s eyes widened. The same tools, the same limitations, the same feast - yet an entirely different outcome.
The adviser turned to him and said, “Your Majesty, this is the difference. When a person thinks only of himself, even a table full of blessings becomes useless. But when a person thinks of the one across from him, everyone is nourished. The Jew is raised to see the other, to give, to share. And when each person feeds his fellow, all are fed.”
This concept is what brings us together and truly embodies the spirit of the festive holiday of Purim: a day when salvation came not through power or wealth, but through unity, generosity, and the simple, sacred act of caring for one another.