She stepped into the throne room, heart pounding louder than the sandals beneath her robe. No one followed. That was the rule—no one approached the king uninvited. You did, you died. Unless… unless he extended the golden scepter. Esther knew it. So did the guards watching her, hands twitching near their weapons. She walked anyway, past the pillars carved with lions, into open air thick with incense and fear.
The king looked up.
“Queen Esther,” he said, voice unreadable. She couldn’t tell if it was welcome or warning.
No one here knew she was Jewish. Not even him. But that was about to change.
—
It had started with a feast. Some years back. Wine, women, too much pride. Vashti was gone. Esther—young, orphaned, clever—was brought in. A Jew among Persians, a foreign star behind palace walls. She told no one her people. Mordecai, her uncle, made her swear it. “Now isn’t the time,” he’d said. “Stay silent. Wait.”
So she waited.
The king loved her. Called her beautiful. Gave her crowns and perfumes and pearls from distant seas. But love in the palace was unpredictable. It was also dangerous.
Then came Haman.
He rose fast. Too fast. A second-in-command with teeth. When Mordecai refused to bow, Haman burned with rage. Not just at him—but at all the Jews.
He hatched a plan. Coins, lots of them, poured into the king’s treasury. In exchange: permission to kill an entire people. Wipe them out like a smudge on parchment.
The day was cast. By lots. Pur.
Word reached Mordecai. He tore his clothes, sat at the gate in sackcloth. “You must go to the king,” he begged in a message. “Beg for mercy.”
Esther sent a reply: “You know the law. I haven’t been summoned in thirty days. If I go and he doesn’t raise the scepter…”
“You think you’ll be safe in the palace?” Mordecai shot back. “Maybe this is why you’re there. Maybe this—this hour—is why you’re queen.”
She went quiet. Lit no lamps that night. Just sat, staring past silk curtains into the dark.
Then she said, “Tell them to fast. Three days. No food. No drink. I’ll go. If I perish, I perish.”
Day three, she dressed. Not in mourning, not like a Jew, but like a queen. Gold trimmed sleeves. Hair high. A trace of kohl around the eyes. Her face calm—only her hands trembled. She stepped into the throne room.
The king held out the golden scepter.
She exhaled.
“What is it, Queen Esther?” he asked. “Even half my kingdom, it’s yours.”
She didn’t answer right away.
Instead, she said, “Come to a banquet. You and Haman. Today.”
—
The wine flowed. The fruits gleamed red and purple. Haman sprawled in laughter.
The king leaned forward. “Now, Esther, what do you want?”
She smiled, bowed her head. “Come to another banquet. Tomorrow.”
Something flickered in her eye. But the king didn’t press.
That night, the king couldn’t sleep. He asked for the royal records. Heard again how Mordecai uncovered a plot, saved his life. “Was he ever rewarded?” the king asked.
“No,” the scribe said.
Just before dawn, Haman arrived, planning to ask permission to hang Mordecai. Before he could speak, the king interrupted. “Haman—what should be done for the man the king delights to honor?”
Haman, puffed with pride: “Dress him in royal robes, put him on your horse, have your noblest prince parade him through the city.”
“Do it,” said the king, “for Mordecai the Jew.”
Haman’s face went pale.
He led the horse through the streets, Mordecai riding high. People watched, confused, amused. Haman clenched his teeth.
That evening, he went to Esther’s second banquet.
Again, the king asked, “What do you want, my queen?”
She looked at him then—not meek, not fearful. Clear-eyed. “Spare my life,” she said. “And spare my people.”
His brows drew together. “What people?”
“We are sold… to be destroyed, killed, annihilated.” Her voice steady. “If we were only to be enslaved, I would have stayed silent.”
Now the king sat up. “Who did this?”
She leaned forward, the words cutting. “The adversary… is this vile Haman.”
The room fell still.
The king rose, rage flickering. He stepped into the garden.
Meanwhile, Haman begged. He dropped beside Esther, hands groping for mercy. Just as the king returned, Haman stumbled onto the couch where she sat.
“Will he assault the queen?” the king roared.
A guard spoke: “There’s a gallows. Built by Haman, for Mordecai.”
“Hang him on it,” the king said.
And they did.
—
The decree couldn’t be undone. But a new order went out—Jews could defend themselves. That day, the 13th of Adar, they did. Across the empire, their enemies fell. Mordecai, now powerful, stood tall at the gate.
Esther had spoken. And because she did, her people lived.
Purim was born. A feast of courage and reversal.
They still read her story today—a Jewish queen, silent no more. Hidden no longer. She risked everything.
And perhaps that’s what faith asks, in the end: to speak when silence would be safer. To step forward, trembling. To trust that what begins in fear can still end in deliverance.
She stepped into the throne room, heart pounding louder than the sandals beneath her robe. No one followed. That was the rule—no one approached the king uninvited. You did, you died. Unless… unless he extended the golden scepter. Esther knew it. So did the guards watching her, hands twitching near their weapons. She walked anyway, past the pillars carved with lions, into open air thick with incense and fear.
The king looked up.
“Queen Esther,” he said, voice unreadable. She couldn’t tell if it was welcome or warning.
No one here knew she was Jewish. Not even him. But that was about to change.
—
It had started with a feast. Some years back. Wine, women, too much pride. Vashti was gone. Esther—young, orphaned, clever—was brought in. A Jew among Persians, a foreign star behind palace walls. She told no one her people. Mordecai, her uncle, made her swear it. “Now isn’t the time,” he’d said. “Stay silent. Wait.”
So she waited.
The king loved her. Called her beautiful. Gave her crowns and perfumes and pearls from distant seas. But love in the palace was unpredictable. It was also dangerous.
Then came Haman.
He rose fast. Too fast. A second-in-command with teeth. When Mordecai refused to bow, Haman burned with rage. Not just at him—but at all the Jews.
He hatched a plan. Coins, lots of them, poured into the king’s treasury. In exchange: permission to kill an entire people. Wipe them out like a smudge on parchment.
The day was cast. By lots. Pur.
Word reached Mordecai. He tore his clothes, sat at the gate in sackcloth. “You must go to the king,” he begged in a message. “Beg for mercy.”
Esther sent a reply: “You know the law. I haven’t been summoned in thirty days. If I go and he doesn’t raise the scepter…”
“You think you’ll be safe in the palace?” Mordecai shot back. “Maybe this is why you’re there. Maybe this—this hour—is why you’re queen.”
She went quiet. Lit no lamps that night. Just sat, staring past silk curtains into the dark.
Then she said, “Tell them to fast. Three days. No food. No drink. I’ll go. If I perish, I perish.”
Day three, she dressed. Not in mourning, not like a Jew, but like a queen. Gold trimmed sleeves. Hair high. A trace of kohl around the eyes. Her face calm—only her hands trembled. She stepped into the throne room.
The king held out the golden scepter.
She exhaled.
“What is it, Queen Esther?” he asked. “Even half my kingdom, it’s yours.”
She didn’t answer right away.
Instead, she said, “Come to a banquet. You and Haman. Today.”
—
The wine flowed. The fruits gleamed red and purple. Haman sprawled in laughter.
The king leaned forward. “Now, Esther, what do you want?”
She smiled, bowed her head. “Come to another banquet. Tomorrow.”
Something flickered in her eye. But the king didn’t press.
That night, the king couldn’t sleep. He asked for the royal records. Heard again how Mordecai uncovered a plot, saved his life. “Was he ever rewarded?” the king asked.
“No,” the scribe said.
Just before dawn, Haman arrived, planning to ask permission to hang Mordecai. Before he could speak, the king interrupted. “Haman—what should be done for the man the king delights to honor?”
Haman, puffed with pride: “Dress him in royal robes, put him on your horse, have your noblest prince parade him through the city.”
“Do it,” said the king, “for Mordecai the Jew.”
Haman’s face went pale.
He led the horse through the streets, Mordecai riding high. People watched, confused, amused. Haman clenched his teeth.
That evening, he went to Esther’s second banquet.
Again, the king asked, “What do you want, my queen?”
She looked at him then—not meek, not fearful. Clear-eyed. “Spare my life,” she said. “And spare my people.”
His brows drew together. “What people?”
“We are sold… to be destroyed, killed, annihilated.” Her voice steady. “If we were only to be enslaved, I would have stayed silent.”
Now the king sat up. “Who did this?”
She leaned forward, the words cutting. “The adversary… is this vile Haman.”
The room fell still.
The king rose, rage flickering. He stepped into the garden.
Meanwhile, Haman begged. He dropped beside Esther, hands groping for mercy. Just as the king returned, Haman stumbled onto the couch where she sat.
“Will he assault the queen?” the king roared.
A guard spoke: “There’s a gallows. Built by Haman, for Mordecai.”
“Hang him on it,” the king said.
And they did.
—
The decree couldn’t be undone. But a new order went out—Jews could defend themselves. That day, the 13th of Adar, they did. Across the empire, their enemies fell. Mordecai, now powerful, stood tall at the gate.
Esther had spoken. And because she did, her people lived.
Purim was born. A feast of courage and reversal.
They still read her story today—a Jewish queen, silent no more. Hidden no longer. She risked everything.
And perhaps that’s what faith asks, in the end: to speak when silence would be safer. To step forward, trembling. To trust that what begins in fear can still end in deliverance.
