The Emperor once invited the Jewish sages to a grand banquet and posed what he thought was an impossible challenge. "I wish to prepare a feast for your God," he announced. "Tell me what He requires, and I shall provide it."
The sages exchanged uneasy glances. One does not simply set a table for the Creator of the universe. But the Emperor was insistent, and refusal could mean danger. So they played along.
"Very well," said the sage. "You must prepare the feast on the great open plain outside the city, for no building can contain our God." The Emperor agreed and ordered his servants to set up an enormous outdoor banquet — tables stretching to the horizon, laden with every delicacy the empire could produce.
When the preparations were complete, the sage said: "Now, the wind must carry the aroma of your feast upward, for that is how a pleasing offering reaches God." The Emperor waited. But a mighty wind rose up and scattered every dish, every plate, every morsel of food across the plain. The feast was destroyed before a single guest could eat.
"What happened?" the Emperor demanded. "That was merely God's servants — the winds," the sage replied calmly. "If you cannot even contend with His servants, how could you host the Master Himself?" The Emperor learned that day what Israel had always known: the gap between human power and divine power is not a matter of degree. It is a matter of kind.