Much ado about nothing...

I’ve been slowly making my way through the book of Esther, with the help of women’s Bible study guru Beth Moore. It’s been interesting.

And by interesting, I mean different.

Beth is a Southern lady with a thick accent and, to her credit, a good handle on Scripture.
But she sure does have a lot of… feelings.

Yeah, just a whole lot of feelings.

But, though her touchy-feely-ness makes me squirm a bit, it’s just fine with me, I suppose. I’m used to taking a whole lot of feeling—or something very much like it—away from a reading of the Word. I’m just not so used to bringing so much feeling to the Word. And she’s all about that.
But, like I said, I suppose I’m all for it, so long as emotion doesn’t dictate how we read Scripture or change the author’s intent.

Anyway—long story short—it’s different. But ol’ Beth made me take a slow and deliberate (and feely) approach to the first chapter of Esther, which I’ve never really done before.

I’ve never put myself in the shoes of the biblical characters the way she seems to love to do. I’ve never thought too terribly much about what Esther was feeling. Or, really, I’ve never stopped to think much about how many folks in the Bible felt. I think about what they did.

My teeth don’t chatter with David’s. My heart doesn’t cry with Mary’s over Lazarus. I don’t try to imagine the serpent’s temptation with Eve.

And maybe I should. (Again, so long as I don’t go overboard…) There’s nothing so rich as Scripture. So why not plumb deeper into it, in a new way? I distinctly remember the first time I tried to feel with Jesus, or (to put it in a better way?) recognized that he felt—that he was tempted, tired, hungry, etc.

It’s no good, stripping the humanity from human history. And especially, I suppose, from redemptive history, since it involves God becoming human.

So, what got me about this fresh reading over Esther was the scene the author describes for us. So far as I can gather, it’s not so common for a biblical author to dwell long on the scenery. I remember long lists of genealogy and very specific instructions for building the temple, etc. But not much focus on painting a picture of how things looked. But here, God inspired it to be that way.

And it’s quite the atmosphere.

You should read it. It’s talking about King Xerxes throwing this 180-day par-tay to impress folks into ransacking Greece with him. And Xerxes really pulls out all the stops.

White cotton curtains. Violet hangings fastened with cords of fine linen and purple to silver rods and marble pillars. Couches of gold and silver. (Seriously?) Drinks served in golden vessels, each a different kind. Royal wine spilling forth. And—this is what really got me—mosaic pavement of porphyry, marble, mother-of-pearl and precious stones.

Precious stones. You know… to walk on.

I’d never stopped here long, honestly, to think about Xerxes. Let alone to think about what was under his feet.

The author writes that he surrounded himself with officials and servants and nobles and governors and all these folks, “while he showed the riches of his royal glory and the splendor and pomp of his greatness.”

The riches of his royal glory.

The splendor and pomp of his greatness.

Xerxes thought a lot of himself, that’s obvious. And he wanted everyone to see these riches, this splendor. It’s no stretch for anyone to think that Xerxes was a bit too focused on his own glory.

But, strangely, as I read this description of the feast he threw—of his attempts to put his glory on parade—and as I was awed by all that mosaic pavement, I began to think of Christ. And of his glory.

And of how much cooler and much more glorious the pavement will be at his feast—at the wedding feast when he returns.

What a great and glorious God we serve.