Esther, a poem

An opulent setting 

stuns the senses 

to imagine it, 

but characters emerging 

repulse my thoughts 

of stepping foot in it: 

Castrated servants 

at every beck and call, 

Drunken officials 

declaring new laws, 

Kidnapped virgins 

perfecting their flaws,

Rejected concubines 

with no hope at all.

An orphan crowned queen

stays silent

to preserve herself,

but the course of history

begs the courage

to deny herself:

One single enemy

threatening her nation,

Death by decree

sealing his ambition,

Her only family

calling her to action,

A dose of reality

leveraging her station.

An overthrown scheme

seems sufficient

to applaud her,

But reversal in Purim

uncovers someone

who is greater:

God, Elohim,

from beginning to end.

Yahweh, I am,

holding fast the covenant.

Almighty, Shaddai,

giving shelter in the wind. 

El Yon, Most High,

reigning even when unnamed.

The Creator is here

I never understood the reassurance of nature until I lived in a place without much of it.  I didn’t realize how vaguely, yet steadily, all of creation whispers like a consoling background melody carried by the wind. But there are certain aspects of nature that shout, rather than sing, God’s name. 

Yesterday we returned from visiting Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Parks. Between the geological wonders of Yellowstone and the snow-capped peaks of the Tetons, I heard one proclamation as I stared in awe: The Creator is here.  

But can we hear that post-vacation, wherever we call home?

Home for my first 18 years of life was in the Adirondack Park, a six-million acre region of lakes and Pines and mountains in upstate NY. To this day, the remote town in which I was raised greets the passerby and native resident with its claim to fame proudly etched in its welcome sign: “Home of the 1964 national Christmas tree”. We’re known for our trees - or at least one of them, long ago.

I wasn’t someone who hiked the high peaks, portaged along rivers, or camped off the grid, so when I moved to a city of concrete high rises and asphalt streets, the absence of nature wasn’t a concern.    

Until it was. 

Gone were the landscape views I took for granted, and in their place, engineered structures and pavement. The question I dared not ask, plagued me when I walked the streets: Is God less present in this place?  At first, I wasn’t sure why I wondered such a thing. But then I found myself religiously catching the sunrise from our fifth story apartment, just to hear it speak. I craved nature, not solely for its beauty, but for its signature message, The Creator is here.

Scripture writers are not subtle when they point to creation as being descriptive of God, and they paint the most vivid imagery of Him through vast, expansive elements, such as mountains, seas, and sky. Mountains, dominating and immovable, melt like wax when the Creator reaches down to touch them. Seas, deep and unsearchable, are restrained by His hand to be contained when they surge. The sky, distant yet visible, He stretched out to declare His immeasurable character.

You might feel like the Creator is not where you are, surrounded by conifers or concrete, deserts or suburbs. You may be a thousand miles from the ocean or about that far from mountains, but one vast element of creation reaches where others do not and cannot be eliminated by man-made structures. 

Start looking up. The sky is speaking. For more, see Psalm 19.

What’s happening?

“...but the city of Susa was thrown into confusion.” Esther 3:15

Considering the latest reports of global antisemitic outrage, it’s not difficult to imagine the chaos that erupted back in Esther’s day. I wonder if the Persian edict of pending Jewish annihilation prompted hateful rioting ahead of time? Was anything from racism to violence against the Jews justifiable in the meantime since King Ahasuerus had already set a date that sealed their fates? Could neighbors who were once tolerant be trusted? Was it best to fight or flee? 

If faithful Jews were among those living in Susa, I picture them turning to the book of Psalms to guide their thoughts, emotions, and faith through the looming disaster. Perhaps they landed in Psalm 77. Although you may not find yourself oppressed and threatened by terror as they were - and as the Jews are today - it doesn’t take physical war to throw us into confusion.  Maybe you can relate to Asaph’s state of mind in Psalm 77:

(v.1-6) He’s crying, seeking, distressed, prayerful, inconsolable, groaning, faint-hearted, speechless, sleepless, troubled, rejected, questioning, and longing.

His gut-wrenching anxieties about God are relatable when our world, internationally or personally, turns upside-down. If we draw conclusions based on confusing circumstances, those conclusions will also be upside-down:

(v.7) Is the Lord’s rejection eternal? He’s defined by rejection; it’s what he’s done all along. 

Is His grace historical? He used to be gracious, but those days are over.

(v.8) Is His love invisible? Since I can’t see His love right now, it can’t be real.

Is His Word unreliable? What he promises isn’t strong enough to be guaranteed.

(v.9) Is his care forgetful? He must have lost track of humanity, or at least of me.

Is his intention spiteful? He’s mad at me, and, as a punishment, He withholds help.

As if Asaph has vomited up his perspective and emptied his heart of poison, the Psalm takes a turn at its mid-point:

(v.10-20) Asaph decides to remember, ponder, and meditate on God’s past activity, miraculous intervention, mighty deeds, holy ways, greatness, rescue, control over natural forces, invisible presence, and shepherding guidance. 

When we ask, “What’s happening?!”, we look back so that we can keep looking forward. 

“God led His people like a flock, by the hand of Moses and Aaron.” Psalm 77:20

Current historic events

Days before the war began in Israel, the book of Esther began to pull at my heart. Little did I know how modern the threat of Jewish annihilation would feel or how visual Haman’s plot would become. Immersed in Esther, it seemed to me that the appalling violence was 2500 years in the making, fulfilling a long-delayed scheme.  

Whenever current struggles or current events converge with what I’m currently studying, I embrace God’s Word as sovereignly meeting me in that moment with necessary truth and perspective.  So, through the filter of 500 B.C., I pray with hope for this tragedy in 2023:

God of Jacob, 

When rage, drunkenness, racism, and sexism, control politics, 

I trust that you’re still on your throne.  

Esther 1:10-22; 5:9-13

You change history through those who refuse to comply. 

Give courage.

Esther 1:12; 3:2; 4:16

You alter the trajectory through insignificant “coincidences”. 

Align each moment.

Esther 6 

You elevate the underdog. 

Raise leaders.

Esther 8

You turn mourning to joy when you intervene. 

Spare the suffering.

Esther 8:16-17; 9:20-28

You preserve the legacy of the ones who stand for the welfare of humanity. 

Reverse these events.

Esther 10:3

May it be so.

“The Lord of Heaven’s Armies is here among us; the God of Jacob is our fortress.” Psalm 46:7

A resource for the committed

On Necessary Endings, by Dr. Henry Cloud

I love green lights. The difference between arriving 5 minutes early or 5 minutes late hinges on traffic signals, and, when not even a brake tap gets in my way, there’s a sense of satisfaction for my perfectly-timed excursion. I must have done something right; I got all the greens!

Yellow lights, though, send me into quick, calculated arguments. Does this really mean I’ll have to stop? Can I accelerate? Can I just cross the white line before the light turns red?  Whenever I cruise through the yellow, I glance with pity at the car in the rearview mirror that failed to make it and has no choice but to stop. 

To keep driving like this could be disastrous, and it’s most definitely disastrous if it’s the way I progress through life itself.

But we are much more accustomed to noticing and interpreting road signs on our daily commute than we are to looking out for warning signs along our life's journey. I think it’s because if we heed the yellows to stop at the red, we experience a sense of failure, instead of commitment. Stopping is certainly failure to continue as before, but stopping is also commitment to follow the signals and recognize them as good. When the light changes, the real failure is to ignore it.

Dr. Cloud sheds light on how to follow the signs toward the end of a job, relationship, or any previous commitment and how to see endings as an essential step toward true and healthy progress in life.

“Make the concept of endings a normal occurance and a normal part of business and life, so you expect and look for them instead of seeing them as a problem.” 

-Dr. Henry Cloud, Necessary Endings

Tenacity and commitment - traits praised for their ability to keep going, stay, and persevere - are also traits that enable a stop, a departure, or a pivot.  Sometimes, you’ll need these traits even more for the red light than you needed them for the green.