When God Hides: The Day She Changed Her Name (Esther 6-8) Chris Altrock – July 3, 2016

The Name We Wear

Tomorrow, July 4, is a day that, in part, reminds us who we are. We may be fans of the Tigers or the Titans. We may be of Millington or Memphis. We may be Church of Christ or Church of God in Christ. We may have family trees with roots in Poland or Peru. We may have grown up in the United States or have moved here from another country. But tomorrow, Independence Day, reminds us that there is something that supercedes all of those differences. Tomorrow reminds us that we are Americans. We are not just Tennesseans or Texans New Mexicans. We are not just Republicans or Democrats or Independents. We are Americans.

All across the country, from the lakes of Minnesota, to the hills of Tennessee, across the plains of Texas, from sea to shining sea, from Detroit down to Houston, New York to L.A, the country will join together in a national practice of celebrating that common name.

We are Americans. Despite where we have come from and despite what differences may divide, generation after generation of us have come together to fight for one another and to fight for the principles that undergird that name “American.”

On June 11, 1776, the American Colonies’ Second Continental Congress met in Philadelphia to draft a document severing America’s ties with Great Britain. They adopted the final version of the Declaration of Independence on July 4, 1776. One year later, Philadelphia marked Independence Day by celebrating with bonfires, bells and fireworks. Congress established Independence Day as a holiday in 1870. For hundreds of years we’ve marked this date and celebrated this common American name.

It’s a name that’s come at great cost. From the American Revolution to the Global War on Terror more than 42 million men and women have served in America’s armed services and approximately 1.1 million have died.^[1] Wearing the name American has come with cost. July 4 reminds us of that.

 

The Name Others Wear For Us

But it can also remind us that there have been times when others have worn that name as an act of solidarity. In the days after the September 11, 2011 attacks in the United States, France demonstrated a touching degree of compassion for the United States. This was especially true in Paris.^[2]

• Many called the U.S. embassy in Paris offering their beds to Americans stuck at the airport.
• At noon on the official day of mourning, pedestrians in Paris stopped in their path and cars pulled off the road to observe the three minutes of silence.
• Hundreds of Parisians gathered at Notre Dame to sing “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
• A massive U.S. flag was unfurled before the Eiffel Tower.
• The Eiffel Tower itself was flanked by an 82-foot-tall scaffolding replica of the World Trade Center, emblazoned with a new slogan of solidarity, in French and English: Les Français N’oublieront Jaimais. “The French Will Never Forget.”

But perhaps most striking of all was something done by the French newspaper Le Monde. The headline on the top of the first page on the September 12 edition were these words:  Nous sommes tous américains — “We Are All Americans.” The editorial below the headline read as follows:^[3]

In this tragic moment, when words seem so inadequate to express the shock people feel, the first thing that comes to mind is this: We are all Americans! We are all New Yorkers, just as surely as John F. Kennedy declared himself to be a Berliner in 1962 when he visited Berlin. Indeed, just as in the gravest moments of our own history, how can we not feel profound solidarity with those people, that country, the United States, to whom we are so close and to whom we owe our freedom, and therefore our solidarity? [Le Monde]

“American” is not only a name we wear for ourselves–it is a name others wear for us as they demonstrate solidarity with us. For a brief moment, people in Paris wore at least two names. They wore the name “French.” But they also wore the name “American.” It was their way of showing solidarity with us.

 

The Names We Wear for Others

Last November terrorist attacks in Paris, France killed more than 100 people. Secretary of State John Kerry flew to Paris soon after the attacks.^[4] He spoke publicly outside the U.S. Embassy in France. The U. S. embassy was lit with blue, white and red, the colors of the French Flag. Kerry said this:

“These terrorists have declared war against all civilizations. This is a battle between civilization itself and barbarism, between civilization and medieval and modern fascism, both at the same time. Tonight, we are all Parisians.”

For a brief period, we in America wore at two names. We wore the name “American.” But we also wore the name “Parisian.” Sometimes we are called to wear the names of others to demonstrate solidarity with others. Just as others have worn the name “American” to show their solidarity with us, so at times we have worn the names of others to show our solidarity with them.

Sometimes this comes easily and we remember to wear the names of others. Sometimes this does not, and we have to be reminded. American Langston Hughes once wrote a poem that touched on this idea. It was called “Let America Be America Again.”^[5] In it he writes about how wonderful it is to be an American and how grand the American dream truly is. And he calls Americans to keep pressing for that dream:

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed—

Let it be that great strong land of love

Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme

That any man be crushed by one above. [Langston Hughes]

But as the poem progresses there is another voice that keeps breaking in. It keeps interrupting. It keeps saying things like this:

America never was America to me…

There’s never been equality for me,

Nor freedom in this “homeland of the free.” [Langston Hughes]

Hughes starts asking, “Who are you? And it turns out that it’s several voices.

• It’s the voice of a struggling white farmer,
• a black man targeted by hate,
• a native American, an immigrant,
• a young person drowning in debt,
• and a homeless person with no food.

And basically each of them is saying they want to wear that name American, they want to live the American dream, but for some reason the name just doesn’t’ fit. The dream hasn’t materialized for them yet. So Hughes finishes the poem with a rousing call for the rest of Americans for whom the name “American” really feels comfortable and for whom this dream has materialized to come alongside these other voices, to show solidarity, to help make sure that they get to experience the American dream as well.

In a way the poem is a prophetic reminder that even while, on this July 4 weekend, we may all wear the name “American,” we also may need to wear other names for others to demonstrate solidarity with others. We may all be Americans. But could we also wear the names of struggling white farmers, blacks targeted by hate, native Americans, immigrants, the young straddled with debt, or the homeless? Could we also wear those names and show solidarity with them as well?

We are Americans. What other names might we be called to wear?

 

Esther’s Names

It’s not just an academic question. In some ways it is the question of the book of Esther. Because the main character of the book is the one person in the book with more than one name.^[6] She is introduced to us in this way:

He was bringing up Hadassah, that is Esther, the daughter of his uncle, for she had neither father nor mother. (Est. 2:7 ESV)

This is a woman has two names: Esther and Hadassah.

1. “Esther” is a Persian or Babylonian name. It is the Persian word for “star.” It is also the Babylonian name for the goddess of love and war, Ishtar.^[7]
2. “Hadassah” is her Hebrew/ Jewish name. It means “myrtle.”^[8]

It was not uncommon for Hebrew people to have both a Hebrew name and a second name taken from the culture in which they lived. (For example, Daniel and his three friends were given Babylonian names when they were taken into exile (Dan. 1:6-7).) Similarly, Esther has one name representing her Hebrew heritage and one name taken from the Persian culture she lives in.

In Esther’s case, these two names represent the fact that Esther is living in and moving between two worlds–the Persian world of the palace and royalty in which she now lives and the Jewish world of her own people.^[9]

And for the first part of the story Esther basically lives like she only has one name–her Persian name, Esther. Mordecai has urged her to keep her Jewishness a secret:

10 Esther had not made known her people or kindred, for Mordecai had commanded her not to make it known. (Est. 2:10 ESV)

20 Esther had not made known her kindred or her people, as Mordecai had commanded her, for Esther obeyed Mordecai just as when she was brought up by him. (Est. 2:20 ESV)

Esther lives for the first part of the book as if she has only one name: Esther. She lives primarily as a Persian. She lives primarily as if she has no connection to the rest of her people. She lives as if she has only one name.

But when she learns of Haman’s plan to murder her people, something within her changes. Listen to the way she suddenly identifies with her Jewish people when she explains the problem to the king:

3 Then Queen Esther answered, “If I have found favor in your sight, O king, and if it please the king, let my life be granted me for my wish, and my people for my request. 4 For we have been sold, I and my people, to be destroyed, to be killed, and to be annihilated. If we had been sold merely as slaves, men and women, I would have been silent, for our affliction is not to be compared with the loss to the king.” (Est. 7:3-4 ESV)

4 When the king held out the golden scepter to Esther, 5 Esther rose and stood before the king. And she said, “If it please the king, and if I have found favor in his sight, and if the thing seems right before the king, and I am pleasing in his eyes, let an order be written to revoke the letters devised by Haman the Agagite, the son of Hammedatha, which he wrote to destroy the Jews who are in all the provinces of the king. 6 For how can I bear to see the calamity that is coming to my people? Or how can I bear to see the destruction of my kindred?” (Est. 8:4-6 ESV)

Notice the repetition of “my people.”^[10] To her, now, they are “my people” and “my kindred.” She’s gone from hiding this part of her identity to fully embracing it and fully identifying with her people. She’s gone from not making known her people or her kindred to calling them her people and her kindred.

In other words, it’s as is if Esther has put on her other name now. She’s no longer merely Esther–that Persian name. She’s now also Hadassah–that Jewish name. It’s almost as if she now wears her other name in an act of solidarity with those who are endangered. It’s as if now she finally wears the name of others, her Jewish name, to demonstrate solidarity with them. It’s almost as if she’s not content to simply call herself Esther. She’s not content to simply see herself as Persian. She now also sees herself as Hadassah. She now sees herself as Jewish. She identifies with those who are in need and bonds herself to them and makes their struggle her struggle.

For many months hundreds of us have taken the name “Carson” as we’ve run one of the St. Jude races during the first week of December. We’ve donned pink or yellow shirts with “Team Carson” on them and run in honor of Carson Head. We’ve taken her name as our own name as an act of solidarity. We made her struggle our struggle. She, and many like her, became our people, our kindred. We’ve decided to live as people who know longer have only one name.

And that’s one of the things the book of Esther prompts us to do. Now What? Esther prompts us to ask: What name is God calling me to wear next? With whom is God calling me to demonstrate solidarity?

Betty Cannon saw the needs of those in Ukraine after the fall of Communism and decided to take their name for hers. She moved to Bila Tserkva and devoted herself to serving orphans, teaching the Bible, and doing all she could to bring light to the lives of others in Ukraine.

Mendy Breeden saw the needs of children in downtown Memphis and decided to take their name for hers. For years she’s served week after week as a volunteer to enrich the lives of the students and their parents at LaRose Elementary.

Barry Mitchell saw the needs of the unemployed and the formerly incarcerated and he decided to take their name for his. He’s served on the board of HopeWorks and as a Faith Encourager for HopeWorks for years, investing in the lives of those seeking healing, hope and jobs.

Jim Ward saw the needs of the many whose lives have been turned upside down by the corruption of a landlord managing several apartment complexes. He’s decided to take their name for his. And he’s been doing all he can to try to find housing and resources for these families caught in homeless because of this corruption.

Eric Gentry has seen the ugly face of racism and those who have been hurt by it and he’s decided to take their name for his. And he’s taken leadership of the Radical Unity Leadership Summit, teaching classes on racism, organizing local church leaders for conversations about racial reconciliation, and helping connect churches to resources for overcoming racism.

What about you? What name is God calling you to wear next? With whom is God calling you to show solidarity.

William Kaufman is a Jewish writer. In a short story called “The Day My Mother Changed Her Name,” he writes of a time when he was in third grade.^[11] William had to miss class for two days that year to observe Passover. When he returned to class, he brought a note as required by his teacher Mrs. Brady. The note was signed “Sincerely yours, Rose Kaufman.” Mrs. Brady, a stern woman and a stickler for details, asked William, “Did you mother write this note?” William answered, “No ma’am. My sister Rose wrote it.” Mrs. Brady asked, “Why didn’t your mother write it?” “Because,” William explained, “she can’t speak or write in English.” Since Mrs. Brady required that all excuses be written and signed by the parent, this violated her rule. She demanded that William bring his mother in for a reprimand the following day. The next day William’s mother came in after school. William interpreted Mrs. Brady’s terse reprimand for his mother. And William interpreted his mother’s reply for Mrs. Brady. Mrs. Brady demanded that the mother at least sign her own name even if the excuse was written by a someone else, and even if she had to sign her name in another language. William’s mother agreed. The next time William was absent, his sister wrote out the note, and his mother signed it. Only she did not sign her name. She wrote two Jewish words instead of writing her name: Shalom Aleichem, meaning “Go in peace.” She knew Mrs. Brady would not know this was not her real name. She knew Mrs. Brady would assume that was her name, just in a different language. But it would make William’s mother feel better about the whole thing. And so, for the rest of the year, every time she signed an absentee excuse, she changed her name. Her new name was “Go in peace.” It was a way of showing solidarity with that mean-spirited teacher.

Esther is the story of a woman who refused to be known by only one name. It is the story of one who embraced another name in an act of solidarity toward others. What name might God be calling you to wear this week?