The Book of Esther tells us the broad strokes, but Jewish tradition fills in the emotional depth, the internal struggles, and the sheer courage it took to face such a daunting task.
According to Legends of the Jews (Ginzberg), Esther didn't just waltz into the throne room. First, she prayed. And it wasn't a simple, rote recitation. She pleaded with God, saying, "O God, Lord of hosts! Thou that searchest the heart and the reins, in this hour do Thou remember the merits of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, that my petition to Thee may not be turned aside, nor my request be left unfulfilled." She invoked the patriarchs, the very foundation of the Jewish people, asking that their righteousness pave the way for her success. Talk about pressure!
Then, imagine the scene: Esther, surrounded by three attendants, one on each side and one bearing her magnificent train, heavy with jewels. But Ginzberg tells us that her chief adornment wasn’t the finery. It was the ruach hakodesh, the holy spirit, poured out upon her.
But here's where the story takes a heartbreaking turn. As soon as she entered the chamber filled with idols – remember, she's married to a Persian king who doesn't share her faith – the ruach hakodesh departed. Can you imagine that feeling? Suddenly, the divine support vanishes.
In that moment of utter vulnerability, Esther cries out, "Eli, Eli, lamah azabtani!" – "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me!" Those are the very same words uttered by Jesus on the cross, and their presence here underscores the sheer desperation of Esther's situation. She’s questioning why she must suffer for actions taken under duress, actions that go against her very being.
She continues, lamenting her fate: "Shall I be chastised for acts that I do against my will, and only in obedience to the promptings of sore need? Why should my fate be different from that of the Mother? When Pharaoh only attempted to approach Sarah, plagues came upon him and his house, but I have been compelled for years to live with this heathen, and Thou dost not deliver me out of his hand."
She's comparing her situation to that of Sarah, Abraham's wife, whose beauty caused kings to desire her. But God protected Sarah immediately. Esther, however, has been living with a non-Jewish king for years. Where is the divine intervention she so desperately needs?
Finally, she pleads her case: "O Lord of the world! Have I not paid scrupulous heed to the three commands Thou didst specially ordain for women?" Tradition teaches that these three commandments are challah (separating a portion of dough for God), niddah (observing the laws of family purity), and hadlakat nerot (lighting Shabbat candles). She is reminding God of her faithfulness, even within the confines of a difficult and dangerous situation.
Esther's story, amplified by these midrashic details, becomes more than just a historical account. It's a deeply human story of faith, fear, and the courage to do what's right, even when feeling utterly alone. It makes you wonder: In our own moments of crisis, what are the "merits" we can draw upon? What are the commandments we hold dear? And how do we find the strength to persevere, even when the ruach hakodesh seems distant?