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N ow the word of the Lord came to Jonah … saying, "Go at once to Nineveh, that great city, and cry out against it; for their wickedness has come up before me." But Jonah set out to flee … from the presence of the Lord.

And the people of Nineveh believed God. … But this was very displeasing to Jonah, and he became angry. He prayed to the Lord and said, "O Lord! Is not this what I said while I was still in my own country? That is why I fled … at the beginning; for I knew that you are a gracious God and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love, and ready to relent from punishing. —Jonah 1:1–3; 3:5, 4:1–2, NRSV

Give us a sign.

One day, some Pharisees and teachers of the law asked Jesus for a miraculous sign. Impress us, Jesus. Convince us, Jesus. We've heard rumors of your sleight-of-hand with water and wine, your conjuring tricks with bread and fish, your banishing stunts with demons and pigs. The word's out that you're Messiah: but we demand credentials. Give us a sign.

Jesus rebukes them: "A wicked and adulterous generation asks for a miraculous sign! But none will be given it except the sign of the prophet Jonah" (Matt. 12:39, NIV).

A curious sign, this. Why not the sign, say, of Elijah? Now there was a prophet—calling down heaven's fire, outrunning horses, staring down kings. Why not Isaiah? A towering, glowering man, I picture him, all sinewy muscle and wild-eyed zeal. Why not Daniel? Serene and shrewd in the face of folly and evil, holding tight the truth amid a world glutted with pagan traps and trappings.

But Jesus said Jonah: the runt prophet, the rebel prophet, the sulking prophet.

Of course, the sign of Jonah is two-fold: it's an image of Jesus' dying and rising (Matthew's emphasis, 12:38–40); and it's a warning to the Israelites that, though even wicked Nineveh repented at the preaching of Jonah, they are in danger of refusing one "greater than Jonah" (Luke's emphasis, 11:29–32).

But I wonder. For Jesus to compare himself with Jonah at first offends. Jonah was a rebellious, petty, sullen man, self-serving and self-protecting. His sense of what matters was terribly skewed. But maybe that's exactly the point: the sign of Jonah is an image, not just of dying and rising, not just of hearing and heeding, but also of incarnation and crucifixion—of Jesus coming to be with us, to share in our fallen humanity, to empty himself, to become sin for us. Jesus, just as he identified with us in the stable and on the cross, chose as his mascot the prophet most like you and me.

Jonah is us. Those other prophets—so free and bold, so daunting and undaunted, so flinty and unflinching—they are larger than life. The story of how God spoke to them, how they spoke to God, how they spoke for God: it's as intimidating as it is inspiring. Who can equal them? Who can walk astride the earth like Isaiah? Who can command and demand and reprimand with Elijah's authority? Who can endure the heavy hand of God like Ezekiel, Jeremiah, Hosea? Those prophets are men apart.

And then there's Jonah. See him: hands plowed deep into his pant pockets, shoulders folded down in a perpetual slouch, face cast in a hardened sneer. He complains about the weather. It's too hot or too cold, too wet or too dry. He complains about the government. He complains about his neighbors. He complains about his church. The music's loud. The preaching's dull. The young people leave messes, they're unruly and irreverent. The services go on and on. He doesn't complain about his neighbor's cat: instead, he poisoned it.

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November 15 1999, Vol. 43, No. 13