“Then Esther sent this reply to Mordecai: ‘Go, gather together all the Jews who are in Susa, and fast for me. Do not eat or drink for three days, night or day. My attendants and I will fast as you do. When this is done, I will go to the king, even though it is against the law. And if I perish, I perish.’”
Jeremiah 20:9 (NIV)
“But if I say, ‘I will not mention his word or speak anymore in his name,’ his word is in my heart like a fire, a fire shut up in my bones. I am weary of holding it in; indeed, I cannot.”
Amos 5:24 (NIV)
“But let justice roll on like a river, righteousness like a never-failing stream!”
Church, we have come to the end of Black History Month.
This month, I have preached you three sermons that some of you wish I hadn’t. I talked about the ugly places where people were left stranded without water. I named names of people who died in government custody and on our streets. I told you our history is being erased from museums and textbooks. I said pain can be turned into power, and I meant it.
I know some of you are uncomfortable. I know some of you think I should stick to saving souls and leave politics alone. I know some of you wish your preacher would just preach the gospel and stop talking about justice.
But church, I have to tell you something. I cannot be silent. Like Jeremiah said, God’s word is in my heart like a fire, shut up in my bones. I am weary of holding it in. Indeed, I cannot.
So this morning, on this last Sunday of Black History Month, I’m going to preach one more sermon. And it’s about what a preacher does when God calls them to speak truth in a time when people don’t want to hear it. It’s about Esther’s words: “If I perish, I perish.”
A Strange Path to This Pulpit
Let me tell you how I got here. Not to this church, but to this moment. To this calling. To this word that’s been burning in my belly since I was born.
I grew up during the Civil Rights era. I experienced segregation firsthand. I know what it’s like to be told you can’t drink from that fountain, can’t sit in that section, can’t go to that school. I know what it’s like to be treated as less than human because of the color of your skin.
I know pain. I was a divorced single mother raising five sons and a daughter. Five Black boys in a world that sees them as threats before it sees them as children. Every time they walked out that door, I prayed. Every time they came back home, I thanked God. Because I knew—I know—what this world does to Black bodies.
I’ve known hunger. I’ve known what it’s like to need something as simple and essential as water and not have access to it. I’ve lived in the ugly places we’ve been talking about all month. I didn’t just preach about them. I survived them.
And somewhere along this strange path, God put a call on my life. A call to preach. But not just to preach salvation—to preach justice. To preach the full gospel of Jesus Christ, who came to set captives free, to heal the brokenhearted, to proclaim good news to the poor, to release the oppressed.
Now I’m working to become a doctor of ministry, and this call has only gotten stronger. God is dealing with me in ways I can’t ignore. The word is in my bones. The fire is burning. And I have to speak.
Like Esther, I didn’t choose this path. Like Esther, I ended up in a position I never expected. And like Esther, I’m being asked the question: Who knows but that you have come to this position for such a time as this?
For Such a Time as This
Church, let’s be clear about what time this is. This is a time when people are being left to die on highways without food or water. This is a time when immigrants with serious medical conditions are dying in custody because they can’t get care. This is a time when eight people have been killed in one city in one month. This is a time when our history is being removed from museums and banned from schools.
This is a time when the gap between rich and poor is wider than it’s been in generations. This is a time when mothers are still praying every time their Black sons walk out the door. This is a time when clean water is still not accessible to everyone in the richest country in the world. This is a time when voting rights are under attack. This is a time when truth itself is contested.
And in this time, God is raising up prophets. God is calling people who have lived through pain to speak with power. God is positioning people in places of influence—pulpits, classrooms, boardrooms, city councils, wherever—and asking them the Esther question: Who knows but that you have come to this position for such a time as this?
The question is not whether God is calling. The question is whether we will answer. The question is whether we will speak or remain silent. The question is whether we will use whatever platform we have, however small, to tell the truth.
When Silence Becomes Sin
Mordecai told Esther: If you remain silent at this time, relief and deliverance will arise from another place, but you and your father’s family will perish.
Let me translate that for us today: If those of us who have platforms remain silent, God will raise up someone else to speak. The work will get done. Justice will eventually come. But we—those of us who stayed silent when we should have spoken—we will perish. Maybe not physically, but spiritually. We will lose our souls to the sin of silence.
Church, there is a time when silence becomes complicity. There is a time when not speaking is the same as agreeing. There is a time when neutrality means you’ve chosen the side of the oppressor.
Martin Luther King Jr. said, “In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.” He also said, “Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.”
Desmond Tutu said, “If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor.”
And Jesus himself said, “Whoever is not with me is against me.”
So when people tell me I should stick to preaching the gospel and leave justice alone, I have to ask them: Which gospel are you reading? Because the gospel I read is full of justice. Jesus’ first sermon was about justice—good news to the poor, freedom for prisoners, sight for the blind, liberation for the oppressed. The prophets talked about justice constantly. Amos said let justice roll down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream. Micah said God requires us to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly. Isaiah said if you want your fasting to matter, loose the chains of injustice, set the oppressed free, share your food with the hungry, provide shelter for the wanderer.
What Jesus Did
Some of you are asking: What does a preacher do when God calls them to preach justice like Jesus did?
Let me tell you what Jesus did.
Jesus touched lepers when it was against the law. Jesus ate with tax collectors and sinners when it was scandalous. Jesus healed on the Sabbath when it was forbidden. Jesus talked to the Samaritan woman when it was taboo. Jesus defended the woman caught in adultery when they wanted to stone her. Jesus overturned tables in the temple when religion became about money instead of God. Jesus called the religious leaders hypocrites, whitewashed tombs, vipers. Jesus washed feet like a servant. Jesus loved the outcast, the marginalized, the poor, the sick, the imprisoned.
And you know what happened to Jesus? They killed him. They killed him because he disrupted the status quo. They killed him because he threatened their power. They killed him because he spoke truth to empire. They killed him because he chose the side of the oppressed over the side of the oppressor.
So when you ask me what a preacher does when God calls them to preach justice like Jesus did, the answer is simple: The same thing Jesus did. Speak truth. Love radically. Disrupt systems of oppression. Choose the side of the marginalized. And accept that it might cost you something.
If I perish, I perish.
The Cost of Speaking
Let me be honest with you about what it costs to preach justice. Some of you already know because you feel it every time I step into this pulpit with a message like this.
It costs relationships. People leave. People get angry. People say I’ve changed, that I’m too political, that I’m dividing the church. People who used to love my preaching now fear it.
It costs comfort. I could have an easier ministry if I just stuck to salvation and heaven and ignored what’s happening on earth. I could have more people, more money, more popularity if I didn’t talk about the hard things.
It costs sleep. I lie awake wondering if I said it right, if I went too far, if I should have said more. I wrestle with God. I question my calling. I wonder if it’s worth it.
But here’s what I know: The cost of silence is higher. The cost of knowing the truth and not speaking it is my soul. The cost of having a platform and refusing to use it for justice is my integrity. The cost of being positioned for such a time as this and staying quiet is my calling.
Esther knew what it would cost. She knew that approaching the king without being summoned could mean death. But she also knew that staying silent would mean the death of her people. So she made a choice. She fasted. She prayed. She gathered her community. And then she said those five words that changed everything: If I perish, I perish.
Bringing It All Together
Church, this month we’ve talked about a strange path to power. We’ve talked about utterances from ugly places. We’ve talked about turning pain into power. And now we’re talking about the cost of using that power for justice.
These sermons are connected. They tell one story. They tell the story of how God takes broken people from difficult places and positions them to speak truth to power. They tell the story of how God transforms our suffering into our strength. They tell the story of how God calls us to be prophets in our generation, speaking words that people don’t want to hear but desperately need.
The ugly place is where we find our voice. The pain is what gives us power. The strange path is what positions us. And the choice—if I perish, I perish—is what activates it all.
This is Black history. This is our history. From slavery to freedom. From oppression to resistance. From pain to power. From silence to testimony. This is the story of a people who kept speaking even when speaking could get them killed. This is the story of prophets who said if I perish, I perish, and spoke truth anyway.
And that story isn’t over. It’s still being written. In this pulpit. In this church. In your lives. Right now.
Your Esther Moment
Now I need to ask you something. Not me—God is asking you through me. Who knows but that you have come to your position for such a time as this?
Maybe you’re a teacher. Who knows but that you have come to that classroom to teach children the truth about history that’s being erased from textbooks?
Maybe you’re a business owner. Who knows but that you have come to that position to hire people who are usually overlooked, to pay fair wages, to use your resources for community good?
Maybe you’re a parent. Who knows but that you have come to that role to raise children who will be more just, more compassionate, more courageous than our generation?
Maybe you’re a voter. Who knows but that you have come to this moment to elect leaders who actually care about justice and human dignity?
Maybe you’re a neighbor. Who knows but that you have come to your street, your apartment building, your community to look out for the vulnerable, to check on the elderly, to help the struggling family?
Maybe you’re a voice. Who knows but that you have come to this moment to speak up when you see injustice, to not remain silent when others are suffering, to use whatever platform you have—however small—for truth?
Church, we all have an Esther moment. We all have a time when we’re positioned to do something that matters, to speak a word that needs to be spoken, to take a stand that needs to be taken. The question is whether we will do it. The question is whether we will say, if I perish, I perish, and step forward anyway.
The Fire in My Bones
Let me tell you why I can’t stop preaching these messages even though some of you wish I would. It’s because of what Jeremiah said: God’s word is in my heart like a fire, shut up in my bones. I am weary of holding it in. Indeed, I cannot.
I have tried to hold it in. I have tried to preach safe sermons. I have tried to avoid controversy. But the fire keeps burning. The word keeps pushing. The call keeps getting louder.
Because I cannot forget the people stranded on that highway. I cannot forget Anadith, dying without medical care. I cannot forget the names of the eight people killed in Minneapolis. I cannot forget my own sons walking out the door. I cannot forget what hunger feels like. I cannot forget what it’s like to need water and not have it. I cannot forget segregation. I cannot forget being treated as less than human.
And I cannot forget that Jesus said, “As you have done it unto the least of these, you have done it unto me.”
So when I see people suffering, I see Jesus suffering. When I see injustice, I see Jesus being crucified all over again. When I see people with power staying silent while people without power are dying, I see the Pharisees and Sadducees choosing comfort over truth.
And I have to speak. Not because I want to make you uncomfortable. Not because I enjoy controversy. But because the word of God is a fire in my bones and I cannot hold it in.
If I Perish
So here we are, church. The end of Black History Month. The end of four sermons that have challenged us, convicted us, maybe even angered some of us.
What happens now? Do we go back to normal? Do we forget what we’ve heard? Do we push it all aside and go back to our comfortable lives?
Or do we accept that we have been positioned for such a time as this? Do we recognize that our strange paths have brought us to this moment? Do we understand that our pain can be turned into power? Do we realize that the utterances from the ugly places are the prophetic words this generation needs to hear?
And most importantly, are we willing to say, if I perish, I perish, and speak anyway?
I am. I have made my choice. I will preach justice because Jesus preached justice. I will speak for the voiceless because Jesus spoke for the voiceless. I will stand with the oppressed because Jesus stood with the oppressed. I will use whatever platform God has given me to let justice roll down like waters and righteousness like a never-failing stream.
And if some people leave, they leave. If some people get angry, they get angry. If some people say I’ve gone too far, then I’ve gone too far. If I perish, I perish.
But I will not be silent. I will not hold in the fire. I will not waste the position God has given me. I will not ignore the call that’s been in my belly since birth.
Because this is such a time as this. And I have come to this pulpit, to this moment, to this calling, for this very purpose.
Now the question is not what I will do. The question is what you will do.
Will you speak or stay silent? Will you act or remain comfortable? Will you use your position or waste it? Will you say if I perish, I perish, and step forward into your calling?
The choice is yours. But choose today. Because people are dying. Children are hungry. History is being erased. Justice is waiting. And God is asking: Who knows but that you have come to your position for such a time as this?
If I perish, I perish.
Amen. Asé. And so it is.
