According to Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer, a fascinating early medieval text, even kings aren't immune to those nights.
The story centers on a pivotal moment in the Book of Esther, a moment thick with tension: King Ahasuerus can't sleep. "On that night the king's sleep fled" (Esther 6:1). But why? Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer, in its 50th chapter, offers a powerful explanation. It wasn't just insomnia, oh no.
The text tells us that the throne of the King of Kings, the Holy One, blessed be He, became unsteady that night. Why? Because He saw the great distress of Israel. The earthly king's sleeplessness was a reflection of divine unease, a cosmic sympathy for his people's plight. It’s a breathtaking image, isn't it? The fate of a nation hanging in the balance, mirrored in the sleeplessness of both earthly and heavenly kings.
The earthly king, Ahasuerus, doesn't know this, of course. He's simply agitated. According to Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer, he'd had a nightmare: Haman, the wicked advisor, was trying to kill him. So he calls his scribes, the sons of Haman, and orders them to read from the chronicles, hoping to find something to soothe his troubled mind.
They stumble upon the account of Mordecai, Esther's cousin, who had bravely exposed a plot to assassinate the king. But – and this is where it gets interesting – they don't want to read it. They try to skip over it, rolling up the scroll. Can you imagine the scene? The tension in the room must have been palpable!
But the king insists. "Read ye what is written before you." And here, Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer adds a miraculous twist. The text says, "And they were read before the king" (Esther 6:1). But it doesn't say, "They were reading." Instead, the writing read itself! As if the very words were imbued with a divine urgency, demanding to be heard.
The king, finally realizing Mordecai's loyalty, asks his servants to summon Haman. They inform him that Haman is already waiting outside. The king, remembering his dream, suspects the worst: Haman has come to kill him.
He decides to play a game. He asks Haman what should be done for a man the king wishes to honor. Haman, blinded by his own ego – remember, the text points out that "the seed of Esau speak in their hearts, but never reveal their secret with their mouths" – assumes the king means him. He suggests royal robes, a royal horse, and even the king's crown!
The king is furious, especially about the crown. He thinks, "It does not suffice this villain, but he must even desire the crown which is upon my head.” Haman, sensing the shift in the king's mood, quickly backpedals, suggesting that one of the king's most noble princes should do the honoring.
But the king has other plans. "Go," he commands Haman, "and do thus to Mordecai."
Haman is aghast. He tries to stall, arguing that there are many men named Mordecai. The king clarifies: "The Jew." Haman tries again: there are many Jews! The king delivers the final, devastating blow: "He who sits at the king's gate" (Esther 6:10). That Mordecai.
Imagine Haman's mortification! The man he despises, the man he has plotted to destroy, is the one he must now honor. The tables have turned, dramatically and irrevocably.
What does this story from Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer tell us? It’s more than just a retelling of the Purim story. It reminds us that even in the darkest of times, when injustice seems to prevail, there's a divine force at work, a force that can turn the tables in the most unexpected ways. It reminds us that even a sleepless night for a king can be a sign of hope, a prelude to redemption. And perhaps, most importantly, it reminds us that even the most carefully laid plans of the wicked can be undone by the power of truth and the unwavering loyalty of the righteous.