The Unhappy Prince
Once there was a king who was served by a minister of extraordinary talent. This minister was, by all accounts, a genius. The king trusted him implicitly; before making any major decision, he would seek the minister's counsel. The kingdom prospered, and the king’s wisdom was often credited to his trusted minister’s sound judgment.
Now, the king also had a son—an only son, in fact—whom he loved dearly. As princes are wont to do, the young boy wanted to be involved in the kingdom’s affairs, to sit at the table of wisdom and offer his own opinions. But the king kept him away from such matters, saying, “Not yet, my son. You are still too young for these things.” Whenever the minister arrived for his consultations, the king would send the prince away while the adults attended to matters of state.
Naturally, the prince noticed the pattern. The minister, with all his solemnity and importance, was always given a seat at the king's right hand, while he, the king’s son, was politely asked to leave.
After witnessing this take place several times, the minister once joked to the other advisers “See! I am more important to the king than his own son!”
Unfortunately, the minister's indiscreet remark found its way to the ears of the prince. When the young boy heard these words, his heart sank. “Could it be,” he thought, “that my father loves the minister more than me?” The thought festered in his mind, and soon, the prince fell gravely ill from severe depression.
When the royal physician arrived, he swiftly diagnosed the problem: this wasn’t a physical ailment, but a deeper ailment—a malady of the soul. The boy's heart was broken, and only laughter could heal it. A prescription was written: bring in the clowns!
So, the king summoned jesters, musicians, and acrobats from all parts of the kingdom, hoping their antics would lift the boy’s spirits. But the young prince was accustomed to seeing such performances in the palace, and he quickly tired of their jokes and pranks.
In desperation, the king called a meeting of his advisers. "We need something different," the king said. "Something that will surprise him and lift him out of his depression."
After much deliberation, one adviser came up with a truly inspired idea. "Why not have the ministers dress up as animals? The boy knows these men well, and seeing them cavort and carry on in silly costumes might do the trick."
And so, the ministers entered the prince’s room—each in more absurd garb than the last—dressed as lions, monkeys, even a flamingo (though that one was a bit of a stretch). The prince, however, remained unaffected. Despite their best efforts, he appeared as gloomy as ever.
And then, something truly miraculous occurred. The prince, who had been sinking into gloom and despair, suddenly burst out with uncontrollable laughter. The room echoed with his joyous shrieks. It seemed the prince had finally been cured, not by the magic of medicine, but by the sight of a stately, dignified man reduced to prancing about as a dancing bear.
One of the advisers, struggling to suppress a grin, leaned toward the minister—still fumbling out of his silly costume—and whispered, “Did you really think you were more important than the king’s own son? Well, now you see: when it was necessary, even you had to dress up like a bear and make a fool of yourself for the boy’s sake!”
Moses and the Angels
When Moses ascended to heaven to receive the Torah, the angels looked down from their heavenly realm and scoffed. “What is a mortal man doing here?” they exclaimed in derision. “God's glory belongs to the heavens!”
In response, God caused Moses' face to take on the features of Abraham. This was not just any face—this was the face of a man who had once entertained three angels in his tent. A man who had washed the feet of his visitors, served them a feast, and offered them the shelter of his home.
God turned to the angels and rebuked them: “Are you not ashamed to treat him this way, after he fed you, took care of you, and even welcomed you in his home?” (Shabbat 88).
This Midrash is puzzling. What kind of rebuke is this? The angels didn't need Abraham's kindness. After all, angels don’t eat or drink – they only ate out of politeness! Why should they feel that they were in Abraham's debt?
The Maggid explained as follows: When Abraham was upset that he had no guests, God sent three angels to visit him. Even though angels do not eat and drink, God commanded them to act like men and eat and drink in order to make Abraham happy.
The point wasn’t that the angels owed Abraham anything, but rather that they needed to recognize their true place in the grand order of things. Moses, with a face like Abraham’s, was the perfect reminder: yes, the angels are powerful ministers in the universe, but God's children—though they be mere mortals—are at the heart of creation.
We may look up at the stars and feel small and insignificant. But, as the Torah reminds us, “You are children to the Eternal your God” (Deut. 14:1). And that is the greatest honor of all.
(Adapted from Mishlei Yaakov, pp. 152-154)