The biblical soap opera, The Days of Esther’s life, is not yet at its conclusion. Many issues have been resolved already. The villainous Haman has met his comeuppance – literally, with the aid of his seventy-five-foot pole. Esther and Mordecai also received their reward at the beginning of chapter 8, in the shape of Haman’s confiscated estate and a promotion for Mordecai (vv. 1-2). However, Haman’s edict to exterminate the Jews had not yet been reversed: it was still hanging over their heads. Perhaps it would yet turn out that the laws of the Medes and the Persians really couldn’t be changed, and all of Esther’s efforts would have been wasted. Much still hangs in the balance at this point in the story.

King Ahasuerus may have thought that everything had been taken care of with the disposal of Haman, but in fact it hadn’t. So, Queen Esther had to go once more before the king to plead for her people’s lives. This time cool, calculating strategy was abandoned as Esther threw herself down in front of the king, weeping and pleading with him to make Haman’s evil plot go away (v. 3). Before, Esther had retained her royal dignity, always appearing as the stately queen before the king, now she threw herself down like a common beggar, crying and asking desperately for mercy for her people.

Once again, as in chapter 5, the king stretched out his scepter to Esther and received her. This time her request was immediately delivered, without manipulative games. Her words were still carefully chosen, however (vv. 4-6). King Ahasuerus’s immediate response was less than satisfactory, however (v. 7). The king said, in effect, “Look, I gave you all this money and killed your enemy for scheming against your people. What more could you possibly want?” Ahasuerus assumed that Esther was just like him: concerned only about herself and her interests. But even though Esther had once concealed her identity because her only thought was to protect herself, now that she had identified with her people, she had a new perspective that stretched beyond her own narrow self-interests. Salvation for herself was not enough if it came without salvation for her people.

Seeing that his initial answer was not exactly what Esther was looking for, Ahasuerus went on to tell her that she and Mordecai could write whatever they wanted in the king’s name and seal it with the king’s signet ring, because, after all, the king’s edicts could not be revoked (v. 8). So, King Ahasuerus could not undo his former edict because it was irrevocable, but he had no problem with Mordecai and Esther writing a contradictory edict, which would then also become irrevocable.

Mordecai had now been granted the power that Haman earlier possessed so that he could counteract Haman’s edict. He didn’t waste any time, but immediately sent out an edict of his own to the 127 provinces of the empire (vv. 9-14). Mordecai’s language deliberately echoed that of the original edict in order to highlight their parallel nature. The main difference is that these messages were not only committed to couriers, but to couriers riding on specially-bred fast horses; the messages must get through in time, even to the most distant parts of the empire.

Once the edict had gone out, so too did Mordecai, leaving the king’s presence dressed in royal splendor (v. 15). Whereas after the issuing of the first edict he went clothed in sackcloth and ashes, unable even to go in before the king, now after the second edict he emerged from the presence of the king clothed in glory. Nor was this merely a temporary glory of the kind he received in chapter 6, as a reward for his previously unrewarded faithful service. Now the attire was Mordecai’s by right as second only to the king. He had become a walking work of the empire’s art, clothed with a richness that paralleled the decorations at Ahasuerus’s great feast back in chapter 1.

The most poignant transformation of all, however, is surely the concluding note of chapter 8 (v. 17). No sooner had Esther conquered her fear and revealed her true identity with respect to her Jewishness than many of the pagans around her apparently chose to pretend to be Jewish, motivated by precisely the same type of fear. Some may indeed have been genuinely converted, motivated to join God’s people by the fear of the Lord. But others were motivated more by their fear of the Jews.

So far though, we have not addressed the fundamental moral question that the passage raises in the minds of many readers. It is this: “Was Mordecai right to issue an edict that permitted the Jews not just to defend themselves against their enemies, but to carry the battle to them, executing not only combatants but their women and children too?” Does this Scripture suggest that genocide is permissible and right when carried out by the Jews and reprehensible only when carried out by their enemies? It seems as if there is a moral double-standard here.

In order to understand these events, we need to see that what Mordecai was authorizing in his edict was a form of holy war. Haman’s edict against the Jews was not merely a matter of personal animosity; it was an expression of the age-old enmity between the Amalekites and God’s people. That connection is underlined for us twice in this text by the designation of Haman as the Agagite, the descendant of King Agag, who was the king of the Amalekites in the time of Saul (1 Sam. 15). Even in Saul’s time, the conflict between the Israelites and the Agagites had been a long-standing enmity (Ex. 17:14-16). King Saul’s attack on Agag in 1 Samuel 15 was part of that ongoing war between God’s people and His enemies, the Amalekites, rather than a personal vendetta. Saul failed to carry it through completely, a failure that led to the present difficulties of God’s people.

Now Mordecai planned to finish what his ancient kinsman had left incomplete. His edict was a continuation of that same ongoing struggle, of holy war. That is why even though Mordecai’s edict, in line with Haman’s, gave the Jews the right to plunder their defeated enemies, the text makes it clear that they refrained from doing so (Esth. 9:10, 15-16). This was holy war, and therefore the spoils were not theirs to take.

Yet holy war was not a universal practice in the Bible, not even throughout the Old Testament. It is distinctively part of the Mosaic era of redemptive history. Jesus rebuked James and John for their desire to call down fire from heaven on the Samaritan village that would not welcome Jesus (Luke 9:54-55). He taught them and us in no uncertain terms that this kind of holy war is not part of our calling as Christians. We are not engaged in an evangelical jihad in which we take up the sword and tell our non-Christian neighbors to convert or die.

It is important that we see why we are not called to this kind of holy war. It is not because holy war was somehow wrong in its original historical context, or was a sub-Christian procedure, unworthy of the followers of Christ. We have not abandoned holy war simply because we have become modern people and have grown more civilized. Rather, we have abandoned holy war in its Old Testament form because we live in a different era in the history of redemption. We live in the era of the outpouring of grace, in which we fight with spiritual weapons to bring the gospel to the nations, defeating God’s enemies by seeing them graciously transformed into His friends. Now we fight with the sword of the Spirit, the Word of God, which instead of turning live foes into dead corpse can transform dead sinners into live saints. Now we wrestle in prayer, seeking God’s enlivening work in the hearts and souls of our friends and neighbors.

What gives urgency to our task, though, is the fact that God’s nature hasn’t changed and His edict of death against rebellious sinners still stands. All men and women, young and old, must ultimately bow the knee before Christ or be eternally damned. There is no middle ground: we are either part of the Lord’s people or among His enemies, and the wrong allegiance will be eternally fatal.

God’s judgment can still be escaped. The message is clear: there is a way out of judgment through identification with God’s people. How can that be, though, given that God’s own people are themselves as guilty of rebellion and sin as those who are not God’s people? Who will deliver us from the edict of death that still stands against us in the heavenly court? What we need is an Esther of our own, someone who will put aside personal interests and safety and risk dignity, honor, even life itself, in order to plead our case before God, the Great King. Such a mediator is ours in Jesus Christ.

Esther 8:1-17 Study Questions:

How do the people of God continue to receive favor from King Ahasuerus as the chapter begins (vv. 1-2)? In what ways might we understand even this as the fulfillment of God’s promises to His people?

Describe Esther’s approach, tone, and strategy as She makes this second appeal to the king (vv. 3-6). How is this different from her carefully planned first appeal? Why might this be?

How does King Ahasuerus seem to initially respond to Esther’s request (v. 7)? What might he be implying to her about what he has already done for Mordecai and her?

While the edict prepared by Haman is not exactly overturned, a second edict is quickly circulated throughout the kingdom (vv. 9-14). What is the context of this edict? Why is it so significant for the Jewish people throughout the kingdom?