The first three chapters of Esther introduce the reader to the Persian Empire, as well as its main characters. The Jewish protagonists are named Mordecai and Esther, whose Hebrew name is Hadassah (Es 2:5–7). Esther and Mordecai are Persian names, resembling, respectively, Ishtar, the Babylonian goddess of love, war, sexuality, and fertility, and Marduk, the Babylonian high god of the pantheon (Hutzli 2022:191–213). Between this datum and the fact that Mordecai commanded his cousin Esther not to reveal her Jewish identity (Es 2:10), our discussion turned to the interrelated issues of names, passing, and code-switching.

Fresh in our minds from a recent book club experience was Jamar Tisby’s (2021:124), How to fight racism, wherein he states: ‘résumés with white-sounding names [get] 50 percent more call backs than those with African American-sounding names’. As the facilitator, I asked the (all black) group whether they had a similar experience. I took for granted the truth of the citation, and, as I looked around the circle of participants, I noted that about half of them had ‘white-sounding names’, whereas the other half had ‘African American-sounding names’. The latter constituency immediately registered affirmation, and from the former portion, one person, Katie, shared an experience. She was once asked by another black person upon meeting for the first time, ‘What kind of a Black girl name is that?’ ‘What choice do I have in receiving a name?’ she quipped to the group.

This same woman proffered an observation that bordered on a confession. Katie is a graduate of Duke Seminary and an ordained minister of the United Methodist Church. Her longest pastorate was in a predominantly white congregation in Texas. In hindsight and based on reflection of our examination of Esther, she admitted that in the pastorate, there were many times that she toned down her blackness and implicitly and/or subconsciously tried to pass as a (not white, but) non-ethnic pastor. Esther, it would seem, also made efforts to conceal her Jewishness and pass as Persian.⁷ Relatively, I shared how we have all experienced some dominant or white culture people try to pass – or more accurately, prove or project – as being woke, not-part-of-the-problem, et cetera, with people of colour, which is a futile and counterproductive effort.

One young woman, a graduate student at the local university, shared about code-switching. She remembered, as a young girl, hearing for the first time her mother altering the way she spoke when conversing with a family member, and then suddenly being approached by a white person. This confusion and fascination led her to research, for her Master’s thesis, the communication styles of African Americans and how code-switching is a daily occurrence. As a black woman, she knew of alternate and even underground apps and platforms whereby black people can be themselves in speech, to meet, warn, organise, et cetera.⁸ As a result, the mediation of one’s person and spheres to (circum)navigate was insightful.

The conflict that spans the biblical novella, it can be argued, is rooted in racial discrimination. Haman is introduced as ‘the Agagite, the enemy of the Jews’ (Es 3:10, NRSV; see also Es 8:1); and once Haman acquires supreme power as second-in-command (Es 3:1), he could enact his hatred against the Israelites or Jews by legislating a state-sponsored annihilation campaign (Es 3:13; 7:4; 8:11). The animosity between the Amalekites and Israelites stemmed from antiquity (cf. Ex 17:8–16; Dt 25:17–19; 1 Sm 15) and ran along the lines of race and ethnicity, which, continued into the Persian period. Our group teased out the aspects and influences of discrimination and racial terrorism in our conversation.

One participant noted instantly that what is at work in Esther and in the United States is a learned racism. It was contended that a young child does not naturally hate or fear people who are different than them; rather, discrimination and subsequent racism is learned (whether taught or caught). This mindset can thence be transmitted generationally, entrenching ethnic relations on a societal level. In some cases, learned discrimination can be subtle or incidental, as when striving to impart truth and realism. Such an example given was the phenomenon of Driving while Black (2020). In other cases, discrimination is transferred among individuals directly and explicitly. An example of this is the white supremacist rhetoric.

When invited to draw correlations between Esther and our context regarding state-sponsored racial terrorism, there were ready answers. The obvious example was the institution of slavery; and the contemporary example is the violence of white police officers on black civilians (the murder of George Floyd and many others were still vivid in our memories). Yet, another striking example had particular resonance with the book of Esther: lynching.

In Esther, Haman could not wait for the appointed day of Jewish eradication for Mordecai to die, so he erected an impalement pole, after the Persian method of the public humiliating criminal executions, to kill his nemesis sooner (Es 5). His plan would have worked had it not been for a fortuitous turn of events (Es 6). In the end, Haman was himself impaled upon his 50-cubit/75-foot/23-meter pole (Es 7:9–10; 8:7). Haman’s scheme, to reiterate was an extrajudicial killing (for the genocidal decree had become law).

Lynchings are extrajudicial killings that the state allows and implicitly condones without penalty. Often lynch mobs were guerrilla activity, although sometimes, lynch mobs broke people out of jail to execute a person sooner – and more inhumanely. In the United States, throughout the Reconstruction era and into the Modern era, there have been tens of thousands of lynchings of black people by white mobs, mostly in the South but also throughout a large territory of the mainland. The last recorded lynching was in 1947 in nearby Pickins, SC (cf. Willimon 2017; Gravely 2019). Several members from our multi-ethnic faith community (mostly among the white constituency) have made a pilgrimage to Montgomery, Alabama to visit the Equal Justice Initiative’s Legacy Museum and the National Memorial for Peace and Justice.⁹ In both centres, lynching victims are commemorated in compelling ways. The harrowing reality and crushing weight of this was felt by the entire reading group as we made connections and recalled it anew or shared new perspectives and experiences. The ancient execution pole as a lynching tree also sheds evocative light on the crucifixion of Jesus Christ (Cone 2011).

When the empire-sponsored ethnic-cleansing edict was published, the populace was bewildered (Es 3:15). Esther, though, seems to be oblivious of the genocidal decree, even though she resides in the palace whence it emanated. When she hears that Mordecai is making a public spectacle of himself by weeping and lamenting in sackcloth and ashes, Esther, rather than inquire about his actions, has clothes sent to him to become presentable again. It is then that Mordecai informs Esther of what has been decreed by Haman with the king’s signet ring (Es 4:1–5). This awkward interaction elucidated something important to consider before advocacy is discussed.

Education is part of the preparation that must be done before a cause is activated. Esther becomes educated concerning the source of the problem, instead of focusing on the symptom of the problem. Once intelligently informed on the matter (Es 4:6–9), she set out to prepare for activism. After deciding to accept the risk of life to advocate on behalf of her people, Esther prepares her steps by facilitating a community-wide three-day fast to be held on her behalf (Es 4:10–17). Poignantly, Mordecai challenges Esther to be the catalyst due to her proximity to the king, and he maintains that silence cannot be the alternative (Es 4:14).

In current race relations issues in the United States, these foregoing matters are relevant. My friends of colour consistently lament the white ignorance and want white people to do their homework. ‘Do your own research’, they often say, when a Caucasian wants a black person to inform them on a racial matter, without considering the taxing, exhausting, or even post-traumatic stress disorder effect a black person experiences by engaging (or refraining to engage in) the question or conversation repeatedly, often with little progress. In addition to education or preparation, the call to not be silent but to (in community, in numbers) engage in activism, is salient. Silence, I have learned in my own research and experience, is a mode of perpetuating racism (DiAngelo 2018:57–58, 148–150; cf. also DiAngelo 2021; Resane 2021:a2661). As DiAngelo (2018), author of White Fragility, states:

This is why DiAngelo (2018:9, 128, et passim) routinely speaks of ‘interrupting racism’, just as Esther had to interrupt the natural flow of regal matters, the grinding machinery of empire, for her cause. Likewise, protests, (sit-in) strikes, boycotts, et cetera are visible, physical, and vocal interruptions to society, as were Mordecai’s public actions throughout chapters 4–7 of Esther. Thus, the education, preparation (organisation), and activation or activism schema is informative and constructive.

Through two banquets and a twist of events (Es 5–7), Esther’s activism is successful. Esther, having spoken truth to power (Es 7:3–6), exposed Haman in his ugly intrigue that does not actually benefit the realm (cf. Es 3:8). Bible scholar Day (2005:128) comments: ‘Like the hoods being removed from a Ku Klux Klan lynching mob, Haman’s racism is now fully revealed for the world to see his true nature’. Woke, the king thence reacts (Es 7:10).

Once the immediate threat of death was annulled, in Esther, a change of power occurred. Mordecai became second-in-command in the place of Haman (see Es 8:1–2a). Not only was the grand vizier’s post occupied by Mordecai, though, so also was Haman’s estate (perhaps the prime minister’s government housing) bequeathed to him (see Es 8:2b). I asked the group if this gesture was reminiscent of reparations, and what we thought about reparations, or the lack thereof, in the United States. This did not actually generate too much conversation; perhaps because reparations are such a large-scale and complicated issue (cf. Kwon & Thompson 2021).

I then asked, in the vein of the countermand of Mordecai – viz. how the Jews could defend themselves against the onslaught of the original genocidal edict (Es 8:11) – and in the spirit of a freewheeling thought-experiment, whether it would somehow be beneficial for black people in America, now or at any earlier stage in the country’s history, to be decreed the opportunity to retaliate by way of therapeutic venting, or evening-the-score, so to speak. While the participants thought, I commented on how in South Africa in the 1990s, Afrikaners feared a bloody overthrow by the black/indigenous population; although, through the efforts of Desmond Tutu et al., with the Truth and Reconciliation Project, a peaceable, even gospel-oriented, transition of governance was realised.

One soft-spoken man, close to retirement, contributed at this point. He had previously shared his first racial memory. As a young child, he was sitting at a red light with his mother driving the family car. In a convertible in front of them sat two KKK (Klu Klux Klan) clansmen in full regalia. He viscerally remembers feeling a tremendous fear. This elder in the church responded to my prompt, saying (something like): ‘We don’t want retaliation; we want an apology – an official, from the White House apology – that slavery, and all its effects, was deliberately enacted and is wrong: “we” [are] sorry’. But that has never happened. Concessions were made and unofficial things were hinted at, but not a direct, public, official statement of wrongdoing and remorse. We indeed did that for Japan! It took several decades, but the US officially and formally apologised for its disproportionate bombing. You mentioned South Africa. At least, there, people could go to the courts and give their testimony, speak their truth, state what happened – and it is in government records. But we are still not believed about the experiences we have gone through – and still go through. They are real, and they need to be answered for’. Though the facts of the matter are not precisely represented herein,¹⁰ I was, nonetheless, impacted by his sentiment, and there was much nonverbal accent around the circle too.

As we read together the final few chapters of Esther, our conversation addressed a couple of other issues. My black counterpart was struck by the word fear that came up several times:

This is probably a (elusive) metonymy for a fear from the LORD that falls upon enemies in warfare (cf. Dt 2:25; 11:25). Nevertheless, she asked me, as the only white participant: ‘Why do you think white people, in general, fear the thought of racial justice, racial reconciliation, and racial unity?’ Weighing my answer, I ventured with (something like): These things shouldn’t be feared, of course; yet white people’s words and actions often do convey fear. It is like you mentioned earlier, when a white guy at work said, ‘How far are we going to go with all this equality stuff?’ Well, until things are equal! But if equality seems unfair to white or dominant culture, then that betrays how accustomed we are to tipped scales of advantage. It seems that what is feared, by some whites, is that they will no longer be the master class; they probably fear becoming subordinated, disenfranchised, not as privileged in opportunities of wealth and social mobility, for example. In fact, it now occurs to me that many of these same types of white people are also those who spout the rhetoric of freedom at every turn (even, for instance, freedom from wearing masks during a deadly global pandemic); but really, their version of freedom is white hegemony.

We see the same phenomenon in Esther 1. The king of most of the known world was threatened by the defiance of one woman, Queen Vashti, to the extent that he decreed an empire-wide hegemony for the dominant gender.

Another main issue in the last few chapters of Esther, beyond the legislated battles of Adar which occur, is the establishment of a new Jewish holiday, Purim. Because Purim is beyond the purview of the Torah, which serves as the basis for all other religious Hebrew holidays, there is space dedicated to its particulars (Es 9:18–32) and the tradition of observance has developed over the centuries. In short, Purim is a holiday for feasting and gladness (Es 9:17–22) to commemorate their relief (Es 9:16, 22) and deliverance (Es 4:14; 9:1).

The US was also commemorating a new holiday that celebrated a deliverance, the historic emancipation of enslaved Africans: Juneteenth.¹¹ President Biden signed the holiday into law in June 2021. Our Esther Bible study took place during March–April 2022; thus, we were coming up on the second federally recognised, annual Juneteenth observance. After drawing out the previously mentioned connections,¹² I asked the group of African Americans what Juneteenth meant to them. The response was largely ambivalent. The most pronounced statement on the subject was made by an older man who had previously shared that his first racial memory was accompanying his dad to a grocery store and having to go to the back door designated for ‘negros’. He cogently stated that he hopes Juneteenth does not lose its meaning to commercialisation, consumerism, or colonialisation.

Our conversations on Esther concluded by debating whether there can be a legitimate extrapolation from the biblical text concerning generational re-education. My reading partners were convinced that with power comes responsibility. Therefore, did Esther and Mordecai use their positions as queen and second-in-command (Es 10:3), respectively, to stem bigotry and turn the tide of antisemitism or racism? It was lamented among our reading group that while the Germans nowadays soberly teach the truth about Hitler and Naziism in schools (see Neiman 2019), the Americans still have not unlearned the sanitary mythology of slavery, and relearned how racism on societal and systemic levels is a nefarious permutation from the periods of enslavement and reconstruction.

The book of Esther offers little support for this compelling reading, yet there are a few suggestions. We noted the favour of Esther (Es 2:9, 17; 5:2, 8; 7:3; 8:5) and the fear of Mordecai (Es 9:3; cf. also Es 10:2–3) could have been translated toward a progressive, restorative empire-wide agenda. Esther’s command to hang Haman’s ten slain sons, in addition to the villain, is curious (Es 9:13b–14, 25); perhaps it is a way to curse the next generation of oppression, ethnic cleansing, and other such evils (Dt 21:22–23). A more overt affirmation of the sentiment I mentioned is found in the Greek additions to Esther, particularly Esther 16:1–24. Although we did not read it or digress to the Septuagint version of Esther, I appreciated the insight of a generational re-education and wanted to offer my support for it.

Overall, I was heartened that our reading group wanted to appropriate the gleanings of the book of Esther into their lives and our societal context.