“Maybe I’m still missing the point.”
In this month’s letter—inspired by Jonah chapter four—I write as a modern-day Jonah living in Richmond in 2025, sending a letter to City Church.
Hey, City Church.
This is Jonah—son of the Truth—checking in. I want to catch you up on what’s been going on since I last wrote. It’s been a lot, to be honest with you. There was my ill-fated boat trip to Tarshish, a pretty epic storm, my getting hurled overboard, and then three days in the belly of a whale that you’d never believe.
And to top it all off, you’ll never guess where I’m writing this letter from: a tent up on Libby Hill.
The other day, I popped up my canopy tent up on Libby Hill and sat in the shade to watch what would happen to Richmond. (This was right after I shared God’s message in the city: “Yet forty days and you’ll be overthrown!”) It’s a great view from up here, and even though the day was hot, I was comfy cozy beneath my trusty tailgating tent, shielded from the worst of the sun. The craziest thing happened, too. As soon as I plopped myself down, a vine started growing up over the tent, adding shade to my personal vantage point up on Libby Hill. That vine was a sign! Finally, something was going my way. I felt seen by God, as if he was caring for me.
Wanna know why I went up to Libby Hill in the first place? Because I was mad. I was mad that God wasn’t keeping his end of the bargain. He’d given me the important job of announcing judgment against Richmond, but instead of bringing judgment, at the very first sign of the city’s repentance, God seemed to change his mind. And change his tune. I should have known it would happen. All along, our ancestors have been telling us: “The Lord is gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.”
I was mad because my job as a prophet wasn’t turning out the way I expected. I preach one little sermon in Richmond, and suddenly, all the people believe. They start repenting—from the greatest of them to the least of them; from the mayor to the homeless. The whole thing is completely unacceptable. It makes me feel like a failure, a fraud. How will anyone take me seriously if I announce doom, but God doles out grace?
It’s why, from the beginning, I didn’t want to get tangled up in God’s business. It’s why I ran away from the job he assigned me. It’s why I ran away from God himself. Who would want to be close to a God who’s always pushing mercy? Who would want to serve a God who’s always giving second chances?
It’s grown late and I’m running out of light. I’ll have to finish this letter in the morning before sending it along….
… You won’t believe what happened this morning. At dawn, a caterpillar (one of those enormous green suckers) started chomping on my vine, the one that had grown up on my pop-up tent, giving me extra shade and comfort. In no time flat, my luxurious vine withered; my covering was gone. The sun started rising in the sky, the wind shifted, and it got hot. Like really hot. Now the sun’s beating down on me; it’s sapping all my energy. I want nothing more than to die.
It doesn’t make sense that my vine is gone. Here I was comfortable in my little spot, ready to watch what God’s going to do to the city, and instead, my vine withers, my shade disappears, my hope vanishes. It’s just not fair. Doesn’t God see? Doesn’t God care?
But maybe there’s a lesson for me even in this. Maybe even after everything I’ve been through with God, I’m still missing the point. Maybe God still has more to teach me about mercy. Because here I am stuck in my pity party for my vine, which I did nothing to plant or water or grow. If that’s how I feel about a vine here today and gone tomorrow, why shouldn’t God feel the same way about the whole city of Richmond, which would be destined for destruction without his intervention, without his mercy?
Maybe it’s not God who doesn’t see. Maybe it’s been me all along. Not seeing His mercy. Not seeing his love. Not seeing his grace for a whole city full of people. Here I’ve been thinking that I’m a prophet of mercy the world needs, when all along I’m the one who needs mercy.
Stay Well & Do Good,
A Prophet of Mercy