(desperately) Holding On to Rope
When the Tables Turn in Esther, in Israel, and in Us
In every great story, we meet four main characters: a victim, a villain, a hero, and a guide. Esther’s story has them all. But we often miss who the true victim is. In the very first chapter of Esther, we meet Vashti—a woman summoned to perform for the king and his drunken nobles. She refuses. She is punished. Banished. Forgotten. In many ways, she is the silent victim of the story—a character who serves to elevate others. This is often the role of the victim: not to be rescued, but to amplify the threat of the villain and set the stage for the hero’s rise.
Haman is the villain—driven by generational hatred, plotting the annihilation of the Jewish people. Esther, reluctant at first, becomes the hero who risks her life for her people. Mordecai stands as the guide—steadfast, wise, a voice of conviction when the stakes are highest.
But Esther’s story isn’t told like a modern narrative. It doesn’t build up linearly to a climax and then resolve. It follows a deeper, older structure. One that invites us to slow down and look more closely. It’s called a chiasm—a symmetrical storytelling form that builds toward a center point, a pivot, and then mirrors itself in reverse. Like a mountain ascent and descent, or the folding of a story in on itself.
The Story Structure: Esther as a Chiasm
The book of Esther is more than a political drama. It’s a divinely inspired literary masterpiece, carefully structured as a biblical chiasm. Here’s how the narrative mirrors itself:
A – The Persian king’s glory and two banquets (Esther 1:1–8)
B – Esther becomes queen / Mordecai saves the king (1:9–2:23)
C – Haman rises to power (3:1–6)
D – A decree for Jewish destruction (3:7–15)
E – Esther and Mordecai plan to intervene (4:1–17)
F – First banquet / Haman plans Mordecai’s execution (5:1–14)
X – PIVOT: The king can't sleep. Mordecai is honored. Haman is humiliated. (6:1–14)
F’ – Second banquet / Haman is executed (7:1–10)
E’ – Esther and Mordecai write a new decree (8:1–8)
D’ – Jews defend themselves (8:9–14)
C’ – Mordecai rises to power (8:15–17)
B’ – Esther and Mordecai bring salvation (9:1–19)
A’ – Two feasts / Mordecai’s glory (9:20–10:3)
At the very center is the reversal: the tables turn. Haman, once exalted, is publicly shamed. Mordecai, once overlooked, is lifted high. Everything changes in that moment. It’s quiet. It happens at night. But it shifts the fate of a people.
God in the Shadows
Remarkably, the name of God is never mentioned in the entire book of Esther. Not once. And yet, His presence permeates every twist and turn. The king’s insomnia? God. The timing of events? God. The fall of Haman and the rise of Mordecai? God.
This silence is intentional. Because it reflects how many of us experience our own stories. There are long stretches when God feels hidden, when the villain seems to be winning, and when it feels like we are left alone to survive. Like Esther, we stand at a crossroads, wondering whether the tables will ever turn. We’re waiting for the moment we hear the words: “And then it happened…”
Esther’s story parallels the broader story of Israel, past and present. A people targeted, scattered, often facing extinction. And yet, a people held by the unseen hand of providence. Esther’s story is also our story. Each of us experiences moments where the world feels like it’s coming undone. When it looks like evil has the upper hand. When silence seems to echo louder than hope.
And this is where we must talk about hope.
Tikvah: The Rope of Hope
In Hebrew, the word for hope is tikvah (תִּקְוָה). You may recognize it—it’s the name of Israel’s national anthem: HaTikvah, “The Hope.” But tikvah isn’t vague optimism. It’s not crossing your fingers. It comes from the root qavah (קָוָה), which means to bind together, like twisting strands of a rope.
Hope in the biblical sense is a cord under tension—something pulled tight as you wait for rescue. It is bound to expectation, not uncertainty. And sometimes, it’s all we have left to hold.
This is not just poetic metaphor. It’s scriptural.
When Rahab hides the Israelite spies in Jericho (Joshua 2), she lowers them out her window by a scarlet cord. In Hebrew, it’s called:
תִּקְוַת חוּט הַשָּׁנִי (tikvat chut hashani) – “the hope of a scarlet cord.”
That rope—that hope—was the only thing standing between her family and destruction. Later, in Proverbs 23:18, we read:
“Surely there is a future, and your hope will not be cut off.”
(Hebrew: “v’tikvatekha lo tikkaret”)
The imagery is unmistakable: hope as a rope that won’t be severed. Even when frayed. Even when stretched. Even when unseen.
When the Rope Is All You Have
This past year, we saw the story of Yarden Bibas, held hostage in the tunnels of Gaza. His wife Shiri and sons Ariel and 10-month-old Kfir were murdered by Hamas. While in captivity, he was reportedly told: “Worship Allah, and we’ll make it easier on you.” His reply was unwavering:
“I was born a Jew, and I will die a Jew.”
That’s what tikvah looks like. It’s the scarlet cord in a dark tunnel. It’s holding on to who you are, to what God has promised, when everything around you screams otherwise.
Esther held the rope when she approached the king uninvited. Mordecai held the rope when he refused to bow. The Jewish people held the rope when Haman’s decree went out.
The Bible as a Chiasm: From Garden to Garden
The book of Esther is a chiasm. But so is the whole Bible.
It begins in a garden (Genesis 1–2) and ends in a garden city (Revelation 21–22). We start with a tree that brings death, and we end with a tree whose leaves bring healing to the nations.
At the center of that grand arc is another pivot. A suffering servant.
Isaiah 53:5
“But He was pierced for our transgressions, He was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon Him, and by His wounds we are healed.”
This may not be the numerical center of the Bible—but it is its theological and redemptive center. The moment when the tables turned. When death began to lose its grip. When the rope of hope was secured to the cross.
Z’man Cheiruteinu: The Season of Our Freedom
As we approach Passover, we enter what Jewish tradition calls:
זְמַן חֵרוּתֵנוּ – Z’man Cheiruteinu
“The Season of Our Freedom.”
Passover isn’t just about remembering deliverance from Egypt. It’s about recognizing the God who still delivers. Who still sees. Who still acts. Who still writes stories with pivot points.
Whether you’re holding on for yourself, for your family, for your people, or for your faith—don’t let go of the rope. It will not be cut off.
Because the tables always turn. The villain always falls. The silence always gives way to song.
And the God who seemed hidden? He was never far at all.
About The Jewish Road
At the heart of The Jewish Road lies a passion ignited by a father-son duo, Ron and Matt Davis. Our journey began with a simple yet profound desire: to bridge the gap in understanding that has kept two faith communities apart for too long. We're here to help Christians connect with the roots of their faith and for Jews to explore the life and teachings of Jesus with an open heart.
Imagine a world where every believer, be they Jewish or Christian, not only knows their faith but truly understands its origins and interconnectedness. We strive to restore the Jewish essence of the Gospel, offering insights that deepen knowledge, bolster faith, and propel the growth of the Kingdom. The narrative of faith, we believe, is a two-act play where both acts are essential for a comprehensive grasp of the story. By uniting these acts, we're presenting a more holistic and enriching perspective.
Life is too short to wander without knowing the full essence of your beliefs. Whether you're attending a synagogue or a church, there's so much more to discover. The Jewish Road is here to guide, enlighten, and, most importantly, bring both halves of the story together. Join us on this journey; together
