Jonah did not enter the city that day.
He stayed outside, sitting on a rough rock from where he could see the walls of
Nineveh silhouetted against the sky. The city was alive, intact. There was no smoke of
destruction, no screams of terror, no smoldering ruins. Only life going on, people
walking, children running cautiously, adults still wearing sackcloth but beginning to
raise their eyes.
And that enraged him.
The anger didn't come as a sudden outburst. It was a slow, deep pressure that built up in
his chest until it was hard to breathe. Jonah clenched his fists. Sand got between his
fingers, but he didn't loosen them.
"I knew it," he said aloud, bitterly. "I knew it from the beginning."
His voice echoed faintly in the open air, with no human witnesses. He wasn't shouting to be heard
by others; he was shouting because he could no longer remain silent.
"That's why I ran away," he continued. "That's why I wanted to go in the opposite direction. Because I knew that's how you
are."
The words came out harshly, but also wearily. They weren't new. They had
been forming in the depths of her heart for years.
"Gracious... merciful... slow to anger... abounding in love," she listed, almost
spitting out each quality. "Always the same. Always forgiving when I expect
justice."
He got up from the rock and began pacing back and forth, unable to stay still.
"Do you know what they've done?" he asked the air. "Do you know how many towns they've
destroyed? How many lives they've broken? How many cries have risen to heaven because of
them?"
He stopped abruptly.
— And yet… you forgive them.Silence surrounded him, immense, patient.
Jonah laughed bitterly.
"You saved me from the sea for this," he said. "To see me standing here, watching my
enemies live."
The confession was more honest than I expected.
For the first time, Jonah wasn't trying to justify his anger with theological arguments. He wasn't
talking about doctrine or abstract justice. He was talking about pain, about wounds, about a
collective memory that hadn't healed.
"I would have preferred to die," he admitted, his voice breaking. "I would have preferred not to see this."
He slumped back down onto the rock. Exhaustion struck him suddenly, not physical,
but of the soul. The anger, held for too long, weighed him down.
"Take my life," she whispered. "Because dying is better than living like this."
The sentence hung in the air.
There was no immediate response.
The sun moved slowly across the sky. The heat intensified. Jonah felt sweat trickle down his
back. He closed his eyes, perhaps waiting for a reprimand, a clap of thunder, something to
justify his anger.
But what arrived was a question.
Not strong.
Not accusatory.
A simple, direct question.
— Do you think it's okay to get so angry?
Jonah opened his eyes suddenly.
The question threw him off.
It wasn't an order.
It wasn't a harsh correction.
It was an invitation to look inward.—Yes —he answered without thinking—. Yes, that sounds good to me.
Even he was surprised by her sincerity.
"I have the right," he added. "After everything I've seen, everything I've
carried... I have the right to be angry."
There was no immediate response.
The wind blew softly, raising a little dust around. Jonah covered his eyes with his
forearm, annoyed by the bright light.
"They don't deserve this," he insisted. "Not like this. Not so easily."
Silence enveloped him again. But this time it wasn't an empty silence; it was expectant,
as if waiting for Jonah to continue speaking.
"I did obey," he continued, his voice heavy with frustration. "I did suffer. I did descend into the
abyss. And them? They only repent... and live."
The comparison was clear.
And painful.
Jonah realized, with a painful clarity, that he was using his suffering as
currency. As if pain were a prerequisite for grace.
"Is that what you believe?" the silence seemed to ask. "That suffering buys mercy?"
Jonah gritted his teeth.
"I don't know," he finally admitted. "But that's how it feels."
The sun continued its relentless course. The shadow of the rock was insufficient. Jonah
moved, seeking relief, but found none.
"I don't want to be like this," she murmured. "But I don't know how not to be."
For the first time since beginning his mission, Jonah allowed himself to speak the whole truth: he didn't
know how to reconcile God's mercy with the pain he carried inside. He didn't know how to celebrate the
salvation of others without feeling that something was being taken away from him.
The city was still there, alive, breathing. Every distant laugh, every movement behind
the walls, was a constant reminder that destruction had not yet arrived."So what now?" he asked. "What am I supposed to do with this?"
The question did not receive an immediate answer.
But Jonah didn't know that, even as he complained, something was being
prepared. Not a punishment. Not a harsh lesson. But a lesson so simple it would
be unbearable for his pride.
A shadow.
A plant.
A small gesture.
Something that would reveal, without words, the exact place where her heart was still
resisting.
The prophet was angry.
And God was not finished with him yet.