Throughout my life, I’ve often heard tales about kings, princes, viceroys, rulers, and, of course, their subjects.
Recently, a rebbi shared with me that when he began telling his class a moshol about a king, one of the boys interjected, “Rebbi! Enough with kings! We’ve never even seen a king in our lives! Can’t you give a moshol with someone else?”
This reminded me of a story about a Jewish comedian who began his routine with, “Two Jewish guys were going to a bris..,.” when someone in the audience stood up and yelled, “Do you always have to make jokes about Jews?”
The comedian shrugged and responded, “Fine. Two Chinese guys were going to the bris of a friend.”
Sometimes, the moshol is too close to life.
Lately, as I watched current events unfold, I couldn’t shake the mesholim of my youth from my mind, unlike the boy in that classroom. And so, I found myself reflecting:
Once upon a time, there was an elderly king, who was beloved for most of his life as he rose to power. People did not know him well, but all of his advisors and companions made sure that every day, news would be disseminated about how kind and compassionate he was. And the people believed it. The king had one distinguished son, a valiant soldier, but he died. The king mourned him in every speech.
The king had another son, a hunter and a criminal. The other son was a rebellious scoundrel. . The prince had committed crimes by stealing from his father’s government and engaging in activities that went against a principle his beloved father strongly upheld. The king was an advocate for laws restricting weapon ownership among individuals involved with illegal or mind-altering drugs. As the king often proclaimed, “Weapons are dangerous enough without allowing those with a history of drug use to possess them.”
Yet, the king’s cherished son defied these very principles. He failed to pay his taxes, indulged in destructive drugs, and acquired weapons while denying his involvement in the illicit drug trade. The king did his best to defend his son, dismissing the accusations as baseless. However, his ministers proceeded to arrest the prince and, after presenting undeniable evidence, secured his conviction in court.
Despite his heartbreak, the king publicly supported the court’s decision, acknowledging his duty as ruler to uphold the Ministry of Fair and Accurate Justice. He traveled throughout the kingdom, emphasizing the fairness of his justice system, especially when it prosecuted and convicted individuals considered enemies of the king. He denied any personal involvement in these actions, repeatedly insisting that his Minister of Justice acted with integrity and impartiality. “No one is above the law—not even my own son,” he declared.
The king’s unwavering commitment to justice earned him admiration throughout the kingdom. His subjects lauded him as a paragon of honesty and integrity, putting the laws of his land and the values of democracy above his personal interests—even the fate of his negligent son.
Over time, however, the king’s age began to show. Behind closed doors, his advisors conspired to bring his reign to an end, pressuring him to appoint his incompetent viceroy as his successor. Because the king was so beloved, the viceroy vowed to uphold the king’s policies and integrity in every way. The viceroy frequently praised the king as a selfless leader who stepped aside for the good of the realm, yet remained firm in his condemnation of his son’s crimes.
Meanwhile, the kingdom was warned of malevolent conspirators allegedly plotting to overthrow the king and corrupt the Ministry of Justice. “No one is above the law,” became their rallying cry.
But the viceroy struggled to win the people’s trust. Unlike the king, he was not beloved, and the subjects began to question his competence—and even the king’s own legacy. What’s more, the so-called conspirators turned out to be less sinister than portrayed, exposing truths about both the king and his viceroy that had previously gone unnoticed.
Despite this, the king’s loyal allies worked tirelessly to defend his reputation. They spent vast sums attempting to convince the nation that the conspirators posed a grave threat to democracy. Yet their efforts failed. The conspirators gained overwhelming support, and the king and his viceroy were ultimately deposed.
Suddenly, the king reversed course. He began to denounce his Ministry of Justice, claiming that it was flawed. He declared his son innocent of all wrongdoing. Under the guise of a father’s mercy, the king made the shocking decision to pardon his son.
Initially, the king’s staunch supporters were taken aback. “What happened to our noble leader?” they wondered. “Didn’t he promise to uphold justice no matter what?” But soon, they rationalized his actions, offering excuses on his behalf. “It was the war. It was the drugs. It was his compassion as a father,” they said.
In time, a new leader ascended to the throne. The king’s former supporters were so preoccupied with criticizing the new regime that they forgot to reflect critically on the actions of their old king. To his loyalists, the king remained valiant, his enemies wicked, and his viceroy hopelessly inept.
And slowly, but surely, it came to light that his majesty was a sham, propped up by his minions. His misplaced mercy, or more so his untruths about his son, began the unraveling of his wonderful veneer and the destruction of his once glorious legacy.
It’s unfortunate that this is not a moshol, but a stark reality. But then again, many things in life are actual parables to life itself.
