SURVIVING THE PROPHET
by Ward Motes
PART ONE
I wasn’t planning to be on that ship, but the untimely death of my Father left my Mother and younger siblings in great need. And, seeing that we had lived in the port city of Jaffa all of my life I dare to remember, all we had ever known was the sea. Therefore, coming from a long line of sailors, the men in our family had worked in fishing boats, transport and merchant vessels ever since a family history had been uttered! So, when I found myself in need of employment, I, of course, turned to the sea.
As much as this was true, I had never in my short life wanted so much to have a different vocational calling. For, even though the sea was all my family had known, it had consumed so many of my relatives not withstanding my Father and older brothers. The sea was indeed a wicked and demanding boss. It gave of its bounty and allowed safe passage from place to place, but at what a price! For as much as it gave, without warning and without care or mercy, it would extract the payment it thought it was due.
So, seeing that I had never known the plow or the herd, all I had left was this cruel task master!
Now, this was not my first time at sea. I had at various times apprenticed with my Father and brothers and, under their supervision, learned the basics of surviving the sea. But, now, I was to be expected to perform as a fully fledged mariner, to stand on my own merits with no man to stand between me and the expectations and wrath of the ship’s captain, my chosen Lord and Master!
All of that was weighing heavily upon my adolescent, weary mind as I stood in the shadow of that mighty ship. I had all of my personal possessions in toe; my whole life in a bag! It seemed to challenge the strength of my arms, shoulders and back; so much heavier than the years I remembered. It grew so heavy that I had to drop it on the docks. I was so sure I might never gather the strength or courage needed to pick it up again.
So, there I stood on the precipice of my impending future, in the shadow of my unavoidable fate. At that moment, if I were alone in this cold, harsh world, I would have changed my direction and vocation and fled to parts unknown. But, I wasn’t alone. My family was depending on me, and this was no time to rethink my life.
It was then that I met the Prophet. In fact, I almost met an untimely end as I found myself inadvertently in the path of his speeding wagon. It arrived quite suddenly; scattering people to the left and the right. People were fleeing their own coming destruction like an apocalypse. It should have been obvious from the very start, as the oxen very nearly trampled me, that the Prophet was indeed in a hurry to either rush to something or to flee from something else all together.
I didn’t know, of course, that he was a prophet at the time as he bounded out of the wagon and began barking orders . He was finely dressed, that much could be seen. So many finely woven fabrics adorned with silver and gold draped across the plump little man. He was well fed, that was for sure. From the looks of him, he had to be some sort of royalty; a man of substance. But the thought came to me. Why would a prince or a king run to this dock and this ship? What reason would he have not to book passage on the finest of transports? No, I couldn't help but wonder why this seemingly important man was rushing to board such a common ship. I mean, even now, as he scurried around the cart that had brought him, his finely colored and bejeweled frock was becoming dirtied and marred by the wet, nasty streets.
And that was an odd thing too. It wasn't raining before he showed up. But, now, it began to pound harder and harder. But this didn't stop the man who had just about run me over from darting to the back of the cart and sorting through bag after bag. I stood astounded until the plump little man turned impatiently and began shouting directly at me.
“Come here, boy! There's not much time!” He didn't wait for an answer, but continued to pull the bags to back of the cart. I instinctively and respectfully came to his side. Before I knew what was happening, I was met with a barrage of bags of different sizes and weight. It didn't help that he was babbling in an unknown tongue half the time, but he didn't care to assess just how much of a load my medium sized frame could take.
“BOY! Stop your dawdling! Get those bags to the boat!” the man raged.
I started off when he shoved more bags at me. I grabbed a couple more and, then, reached for another when he cut me off. Suddenly, he was on top of me like a hungry animal.
“Not that one...” He said picking the bag up and holding it close, “not that one...”
His ranting had faded into incoherent babbling. As I began to trudge toward the boat, he walked past me almost sad. He found the ramp to the very ship I was to board and work on as if he just knew. In hindsight, he WAS a prophet, after all.
As I followed him up the gang plank, I realized that I had picked up one too many bags. I weaved and stumbled my way up; trying desperately not to toss his belongings into the choppy water below. The ship which had sat majestically still before me mere moments ago, was now beginning to toss back in forth in the wind driven waves. The sky was growing darker by the minute and the only thing to light my way was the occasional lightning which seemed far in the distance. I had almost lost one of the bags and had begun dragging it behind me. As I neared the top of the ramp, I could see the well to do stranger talking with a stern authoritative figure.
“Captain, how quickly can we sail?” the man asked clutching his bag tighter now.
The captain soured up, but tried to be judicious, “Well, if you haven't noticed, good sir, there is an angry storm upon us. We were ready to go until you brought this tumult with you!”
“Me?” the man looked both shocked and guilty all at the same time, “What do you mean, me?”
The captain, realizing he had possibly insulted a paying customer, began to backpedal and plead, “Oh, no, sir! Of course, I would NEVER insinuate that you had anything to do with this...”
The captain's right hand rose and his eyes peered in the approaching, dark monster.
“Well, good!” the flustered man went on, “I'm sure we can come to some agreement (he flashed something in a small bag which got the Captain's attention). Get your men down there and deliver my bags to my cabin...BOY!”
Suddenly, as I came up beside the two of them, he was yelling at me personally again.
“BOY! Don't drag the bag!!! That isn't refuse! Those are mostly holy books!!” He ranted.
The captain suddenly noticed me and was not happy as he addressed his new paying passenger, “What is this? A servant of yours?”
The plump little man looked aghast, “Wha? Who? NO! He was wandering in front of your ship so I just assumed he was one of the crew!”
The captain gave me a powerful looking at; checking my smaller frame up and down, “What have you to say, BOY?”
I put the bags down and stood straight and recited what my Father had taught me to say, “I am Bashaa, son of Hanzu, son of Naram. Our forefathers served the gods of the sea. My people knew the boat more than dry land. My father, Hanzu, and my older brothers served by your side; great men of the sea. They have since passed in service to the angry gods of the depths. “
“Pft! Rubbish...” the voice of the new passenger broke my solemn recitation with an air of indignation and ridicule.
The captain stared at the scoff and hurried me on, “Spit it out, boy!”
“I'm your new hand. I've come to join the sea.” I blurted.
“Wha?” The captain just stared and looked me over again, “I'm not sure we need another hand, especially one as frail looking as you.”
I automatically went to pleading, “But sir. I've been a hand on this ship before, under my father. I know what to do and I'm stronger than I look!”
The captain looked me in the eye, as if he were reading me, deep within, “Aye, I bet you are. Your father was a good man. A good man indeed. I remember when he was young lad. He far surpassed any of my expectations then.”
As I continued to look into the eyes of the man who held my fate, I saw a bit of sadness there. I wasn't sure if he were mourning my father and brothers or if he was fearing what fate may await me. But his countenance became less of the hard, weathered sailor and more of the nurturing grandfather. But it didn't last long.
“Well, this all well and good, but it's not getting me my bags, is it?” The rude old man interrupted.
The captain's face returned to the angry, stone face and finished, “No, I reckon not. Welcome aboard, boy!”
“Bashaa.” I informed.
“Bashaa?” He returned a puzzled look.
“Bashaa, “ I repeated, “that is my name.”
The captain's face tensed up, “Ah, Bashaa. Well, as long as you're on my ship, you'll be BOY! Now, get those bags to the passenger cabin...Maschau!!”
A burly, ruddy old seaman ran up and stood ready to serve, “Yes, Captain!”
“Show the BOY here where the passenger cabin is and help him retrieve the rest of this good man's belongings.” The Captain ordered as Maschau looked the boy over (that seemed to be the general greeting around here) and, then, suddenly announced, “And DO make it soon, apparently, we're setting sail soon.”
“Sail, sir? In this?” Maschau looked horrified.
“YES, in this!!” The Captain ordered, “Now, MOVE and make haste our departure! We've got to out run that storm. And pray we keep Tiamet at bay!”
As Maschau and myself moved to do the Captain's bidding, the Captain could be seen turning to plump little foreigner and apologizing, “Oh, sorry, no offense, Lord Jonah.”
The man whose name must have been Jonah and who I came to find out was a prophet just shrugged and answered, “No bother, my good Captain. Just get this ship out of this port as soon as possible.”
The last thing I saw was the 'Prophet' pulling out an unimaginable amount of gold and giving it to the Captain. Apparently, the man's money far surpassed the good judgment of the hardened sailors and their learned Captain. I just couldn't help but wonder what fate awaited us and if any prayer to any god would do us any possible good from here on.
PART TWO
I found myself lugging bag after bag up to the Prophet's room and none of them were light. Thank the gods Maschau was helping. For I would never have survived it. The owner of the bags had retreated from the rain into his cabin and took every occasion to curse me and Maschau on every trip. Apparently, despite the fact that the storm was bearing down upon us, we were not moving fast enough for him.
What is worse was the captain was pushing on with his plan to set sail even as the rain poured and the winds seemed destined to be against us. Maschau rambled on about how he could not understand it. It was insanity to him. There was no amount of gold or riches that would make him sail into this monster. And, yet, I did not see him rushing off the ship as we made preparations to launch.
I was grateful to escape working on the deck. The rain was flooding a cross the topside as the men struggled to go about their work. No, I felt dryer circumstances were to appreciated. But the company I was to keep left a great deal to be desired.
The Prophet continued to be difficult. He rummaged through every bag; taking inventory of everything as if he expected us to be stealing from him. At times, he would think something was missing and begin to accuse me or Maschau of stealing from him only to find the manuscript in another bag. But he never apologized.
“This is all I have left. After all my service...this is all...” He began to mutter.
But he still was not talking to me. He only addressed me when he wanted to accuse or berate me. He barely looked at me. I had to be on alert at all times as he was prone to come my way with little or no care of running me over. It was as though I did not exist. That is, until he needed something.
Fresh water. Bread. A blanket. The demands never ceased. You would think if he needed so many amenities, he would have booked a nicer ship. That's what it always came back to. Why this ship? And why was he in such a hurry that he had to sail in this storm?
“Are you listening to me, boy?!”
I dare say that I wasn't, “Sorry, sir?”
“This is going to be a long and arduous journey. And, if you don't pay attention, it is going to be as hard as it is long!!” the Prophet scolded.
“Yes, sir.” Was all I was allowed to answer.
“Now, come here and hold this light so I can record my journey.” the gruff holy man bellowed.
He positioned me and re-positioned me just behind him to one side until he felt the light was right. The room was dark like a pit all around us. And, even now, the pitch black surrounded us and threatened to devour what little light was left. But the Prophet struggled on and berated me every time I breathed.
He spoke as he wrote in his native tongue. I didn't understand any of it, but it flowed like poetry. It was like a song that delighted the ears and blessed the soul. And it did, despite the language barrier, bless my soul. It seemed that something important was happening here.
He had written and sang for a while when he suddenly stopped on a particular word.
“Nineveh”
Now, that word I understood. It was where my people were from. It was the land of my birth.
“Are you prophesying of Nineveh, my Lord?” I asked expectantly.
He leered over at me as I had interrupted him and, then, sneered.
“NO, “ He answered dryly, “Were that I had a word from the Lord of its destruction, but I do not. But here's hoping that there is time for my God to change his mind.”
I wasn't sure how to respond to that. The thought of a god changing his mind or caring what we thought astounded me. On top of that, you could feel the hate pour off every word of the Prophet and drip like fire from his lips. He put his writing implement down and massaged his temple as it were bothering him.
“I can help...” I said shyly.
He just looked up at me in disbelief, “With what?”
I hesitated as he waited quite impatiently, “Your head. It hurts, right?”
Even now, he was wildly messaging his forehead, “Why, yes. It is. And what do you intend to do about it, boy?”
I was even more reluctant to respond than before but I knew silence would make him even more bitter, “My mother taught me how to rub the pressure points of ones head to relieve pain.”
“Really?” He asked almost amused, “Is there an incantation or a sacrifice that goes with that? Do I need a goat or something?”
“Well, no, sir, “I responded, puzzled at his response,” Just a rub.”
He seemed surprised, “Oh, alright. Let us have this 'rub'.”
He sat back and closed his eyes. That alone surprised me. It didn't seem that he trusted anyone that much. But I went about my task; doing it just like my mother taught me. Just so much pressure at just the right places and with the right angles of action.
Apparently, I learned it well. The rub relaxed him almost immediately. Even with the roar of the storm and the shouts of the men preparing to embark, the Prophet melted in my hands. As I continued on, I found myself singing the song my mother sang to me when she rubbed my temples not that long ago. It was a song of my people; celebrating the land of Babylon. The heat of the desert wind. The strength of a people unconquerable. The power of the two rivers raging to the sea. Most of it was vague until the chorus when I began to call the name of this great and mighty land.
“Nineveh. Oh, Nineveh.”
Suddenly, the Prophet was awake again as he reached up and grabbed my left arm; staring me down and stopping my song.
“I am sorry. Am I disturbing you with my song?” I asked honestly.
He simply stared at me as if I had wronged him.
“That is the last place I want to hear anyone sing its glories.” He sneered pulling me close, “I never wanted to hear of it again!!”
I smiled, “but you were writing about it.”
He bowed his head, “So I was. I guess as much as I try and distance myself from it, the more it plagues me.”
He let me go and got quiet for quite some time; not talking or writing or singing at all. He just stared at the walls of the room ceaselessly. The storm got louder and was close to being on top of us. You could feel the tossing of the boat as I heard the captain call for the ropes that held the ship to the docks to be released.
I felt the gentle lunge of the ship as we had begun our trip, still tossing like a twig in the stream.
“Why do the wicked live? Become old, yea, are mighty in power?” the voice of the elder continued in an almost mournful way. So much so, it nearly saddened me. He seemed so lost for a Prophet; so sad.
“Therefore, they say unto God, 'Depart from us, for we desire not the knowledge of THY ways.”
His voice had become angry as he muttered on almost reciting; a resolve awash over his face, “They stumble before the wind and, as chaff that the storm carries away.”
The Prophet got quiet again lost in thought.
“What about Nineveh?” I asked, lost in my own wonder and thought.
He came to quickly, “Wha? What do you mean, 'What about Nineveh?'!!!”
As he yelled at me, he rose and grabbed my tunic and pinned me up against the wall. I could see the rage in his eyes; something deep down inside bubbling up. His body shook under its power. And, like the sea that I could, even now, hear and feel rage through the wall of the ship, so was his hate that he had suddenly aimed at me.
“What do you know about Nineveh?!!” He yelled directly into my face.
I took a deep breath out of fear and simply replied, “It is where I am from. It is where my people call home.”
He let me go and backed away from me suddenly sad. Falling into his chair in a surrender that I did not understand. He suddenly couldn't look me in the eye as he replied, “Then, I am so very sorry.”
(Jonah's ranting was quotes from JOB 21)
PART THREE
The storm just wouldn’t let up.
It seemed the further we journeyed from Jappa, the more the tempest raged. I thought I was accustomed to the sea. But I was not ready for this. The unrest of the sea seemed to follow us along our way. And its anger rose with every hour. The sound of its coming was like a beast and the ship was its small, helpless prey. And the worst part was that, on the sea, there was no place to run to safety.
I could still hear the men struggling with the angry beast. But, honestly, it became harder to hear anything over the storm. It vibrated everything around me; shaking anything that was not nailed down. This included my body and soul. I just sat and tried to block out the noise and ignore the rumble of the approaching monster.
Strangely enough, the Prophet seemed unmoved. He just sat quietly at his desk and starred at the nearly empty parchment. It had been what seemed like an eon since he had written anything. I had abandoned my post and, yet, I was still holding the candle that had dwindled down to nearly nothing. No, I just sat in the corner and braced myself. The Prophet only sat there and starred into the black nothingness of the shadows that had engulfed his writing.
I could remember his last written word: Nineveh. It seemed to deny him the ability to continue on; blocking every other word from being written. It had frozen him and silenced his song. Why, I could not understand. But, as my mind worked to silence the storm around me, all of the Prophet’s words rained heavily down upon my much like rain that pounded the deck above. Such anger in this man’s voice and, yet, drenched in sadness. But this was a Prophet; a man dedicated to his God. These types of men feared nothing, but faced the coming days with surety and courage. They lived simply to pass the words of their divine Lord to we who, on the ground, awaited the commands and comfort of, hopefully, our benign deity.
All I could wonder was what could his God have said that would send a man of his stature into such a frenzied journey and crush his soul so.
“Go into the great city…” the old man muttered in his sleep and, suddenly, he was awake and panicked. He looked around like a madman or a criminal who just knew he had been found out. His maniacal gaze settled upon me and he began to come forth from his nightmare.
“How long was I asleep?” He asked as he peered through the darkness at his nearly blank parchment.
I fearfully answered, “Only about an hour, my Lord.”
“Oh…” He flopped back in his chair and drug his hand hard across his face, “I was so hoping we would be in Tarshish.”
“Tarshish?” I asked, “Is that where we are going?”
I honestly didn’t know. Until now, it did not matter. It was a ship and I was a sailor. But, with the angry beast bearing down upon us, I began to question everything.
“Why Tarshish?” I asked for the first time.
“Why, not.” The Prophet answered dryly.
I struggled to understand, “Is Tarshish the great city?”
He looked at me in horror.
“I heard you speak of it in your sleep.” I explained.
He continued to stare in disbelief, “I spoke that in a language you comprehended?”
“Yes, I understood you.” I repeated, “Is it the great city you have been summoned to?”
The elder turned away and sighed, “Hardly.”
There was a long period of silence between us as the storm seemed attempted to drown the both of us out anyway. Suddenly, there was a massive crack like the sound of lightning hitting its mark. And, with this massive noise, the room shifted heavily to one side forcing me from my secure corner rolling across the floor. There were suddenly all sorts of rolled up parchments falling to the floor and scattering to all sides of the room. As the room began to settle back upright, I instinctively leapt to my feet and began gathering them up before the Prophet could scold me. To my surprise, as I turned with my arms full of scrolls, the holy man had not even noticed. Instead, his chair had crashed up against the far corner with the elder intact but frozen in outright terror. His eyes grew even wider as the thunder rolled like the growl of the beastly storm.
I put the parchments, which he had obsessed so much about earlier, back into their proper bags. All the time, the old man withered into a cowering pool of terror. His eyes shot here and there following the noise of the creaking ship which strained against the monster that seemed intent on devouring it. There was another crash of lightning and the Prophet hid his face deep in his cloak as if to hide his presence from the approaching storm. It was unnerving. This man who was supposed to be a pillar of divine knowledge and have a personal vision of the future seemed to fear what was to come. That left me with nothing to stand on.
There was a calming of the storm for a moment and I took the time to try and comfort this man from a foreign land.
“All will be fine, my Lord,” I did my best, I really did, “this ship has the best crew of all the Mediterranean. If anyone can get us to port, these men can.”
He shot me a terror-filled look, “What have I done?”
“I am sorry, what?” I was truly confused.
He turned away from me and began to sing a new song; a prayer possibly. Only, this time, it was a broken, unsure song with a cadence and tone that did everything but instill confidence. It was still in his foreign tongue but, this time, it did not warm my soul. No, it, instead, filled my mind with the fear I saw in his eyes, transferring his horror and confusion. He began to rock back and forth as he sang his frantic song; all the time with a look of complete and abject fear. He looked like he was almost in a trance, starring ahead at something that, no matter what he did, was coming his way.
The Prophet buried his head in his hands and cried, “I will not GO!”
For quite some time, he just cried; broken by the task at hand. I just stood there and watched, astounded. Before me was a bitter and broken man. Nothing like the bossy, self important man who boarded the ship. He was struggling with something that was tearing him apart.
“If Tarshish is not the ‘GREAT CITY’, then where?” I asked still trying to piece it all together, “Where is it you were sent that you will not go?”
He just looked at me afraid of the answer.
I continued to bear down on him. Why, I was not sure, “What destination could you fear so that you would deny the command of your God?”
This seemed to anger him suddenly, “I do not fear the so-called ‘GREAT CITY’. Bah! It is nothing in this world! It believes itself to be the center of everything. It thinks itself the end of wisdom and the beginning of power! It raises its armies even now; intending in swallowing up the world. Intent on swallowing my Israel! How dare they threaten the land of the Most High God! How dare they pray to their pagan gods and expect to find victory!!”
He stood suddenly, bracing himself on the table where his parchment still sat in darkness.
“How dare He call me to warn them of their coming destruction! They are the enemy of all who lives. They are the enemy of His children! They deserve the destruction that’s coming!”
Suddenly, he, in anger, swept his hand across the table; knocking over everything on it. This included the parchments I had just retrieved. His chest was heaving with rage now. He gripped the sides of the table and braced himself; readying for another tirade.
“How dare…” the man who had just raged louder than the storm collapsed on the floor.
I ran to brace him. I could not let him injure himself on my watch. The Captain would never forgive me. It was astounding how frail and small the Prophet was. After his ordering everyone around and his recent rant, he seemed so strong and assertive. But, now, he was a man crushed by the weight of his office. I didn’t pretend to understand anything he was saying. Most of his tirade confused me to no end. But, as he sobbed in my arms, it didn’t seem to matter.
“What have I done?” He sobbed.
I tried to console him as best I could. I had been able to speak his language if not broken, but that did not stop me from attempting to calm him.
“Please. It cannot be too late.” I wasn’t sure that was helping but his crying slowed, “You still have life. Your God has given you that much. Surely he is not done with you.”
He looked up at me; seemingly a bit ashamed of his broken condition, “This is true…”
I felt I was making headway with him, “It is simple. We convince the captain to change course and take you to this ‘Great City’ and warn them. Maybe they can still be saved.”
He looked at me puzzled, “Saved?”
“Yes. This WAS your God’s intention; was it not?” I asked earnestly.
He pushed me away and struggled to pull himself up even as the ship shifted heavily. With the shift, there was a powerful crash of lightning and the sound of men on the deck struggling against the storm. I tried to help him, but he pushed me away all the more. We both stumbled across the room trying hard not to fall. The Prophet finally pulled up on a chest in the far end of the room. I was not so lucky. I found myself hitting the ground hard. So hard it brought blood from my arm that had taken the brunt of the fall.
“SAVE?” The elders voice rose as he turned to me; the rage returning to his ancient face, “WHY would I want to save Nineveh?!!”
Suddenly, the truth was out and the horror of it all was all too clear to my young mind. The city he was to warn was the land of my people's ancestral home.. The ‘GREAT CITY’ which was in danger of being destroyed was Nineveh!
PART FOUR
Besides the raging storm that was obviously right on top of us, we sat in silence for most of the night. He had collapsed into a broken shell of the man he was meant to be. And I, well, found a corner of the room to try and forget what had just been revealed to me.
I couldn’t tell if the Prophet was asleep, but he sat so still. You almost couldn’t tell if he was alive or not. If not for the light movement of his chest, I would have sworn he was gone. And, every once in a while, he would shift and sigh heavily. How could this man rest so peacefully? After openly condemning a whole city to destruction, he just sleeps? What kind of man WAS this?
I had known these types of men before in the village where I grew up. They were the most self assured men amongst us. They dedicated their life to their deity and, without waver, served. But they were not always the kindest people. Their unwavering belief in whatever god they served left many of them with an overblown sense of importance and an arrogant streak that showed itself especially against the ‘uninitiated’. Those who did not believe the way he did were beneath him and, if you did not obey their proclamations and kneel before their master, you were less than nothing. When I first met the Prophet, I recognized this in him. But now? Something had gone wrong in the service to his deity.
I couldn’t blame his God. Obviously, his actions were contrary to the will of his master. I had heard of this God of the Hebrews. He was a national God. He protected the ‘chosen people’. Although with the present shape of the nation of Israel, you would begin to wonder about the power of their God. Israel was broken in half. Two Kings. Two Kingdoms. From the outside, it seemed as though these ‘chosen’ were falling apart at the seams.
But, thinking about it, I almost couldn’t blame this man named Jonah. He was probably used to bringing news of redemption to his people and informing them how to stay in their God’s favor and protection. For him to be called to warn who he saw as the enemy? I’m sure it was confusing.
The problem was that this ENEMY was my people. Nineveh was where my family came from so long ago. I had to warn them. The Prophet had to warn them.
Suddenly, the sound of the crash of lightning woke me from my thoughts. As I looked up, the Prophet jumped as though he felt he had to dodge. He, then, starred at the ceiling as if seeing something starring back. Tears were falling from his age-worn face as he continued to look up. He looked to be searching for something. Almost pleading with someone. As if in answer, the thunder rolled and shook the cabin. The look on the face of the ancient holy man went quickly from imploring to fearful as he sank his head down into his cloak; hiding his face once again.
The farther we went, the louder and angrier the storm got. It would not be ignored. There was nowhere to hide from its rage. The Prophet had begun to shake in response. Every lightning strike seemed to be getting closer and closer and truer in aim. It was almost like the ship (or someone on it) was its target. And, then, the thunder would almost scream its indignation for all to hear; getting louder with every moment. Was this the anger of this man’s God? Was this His response to His servant’s disobedience? If so, what was this deity waiting for? It was obvious that, if He controlled the storm, he could crush us at any moment without a thought. Was He waiting for a repentant response from His servant? All I knew was that if something wasn’t done soon, there was nothing to save any of them from the wrath of this angry God!
But what kind of national God would take the time to try and warn its people’s enemy? I’m sure that’s what the Prophet was asking. Was there more to this man’s God than the simple plot of land or group of people? I had not known any god to ever extend its concern beyond its borders unless it was at war with an outside force. But to give a word of warning to maybe save the enemy? It did seem rather insane. And, yet, these were MY people we were talking about.
The lightning crashed again and there were cries from the deck above. I bolted up and started for the door when, suddenly, I looked to the Prophet. He made no indication of stirring. He slept so soundly; like a man without a care. Even as the cries of the sailors above grew louder, he slept on, uncaring. Abandoning my position, I bolted through the door; not bothering to close it behind me. Hitting the ladder leading to the deck, I was awash in waters of the sea. It almost knocked me down to the floor below, but I held on for dear life. I wondered if this were such a good idea after all.
Straining against the rage of the storm and the helpless tossing of the ship, I pulled myself up to the deck. Grabbing a hold of the mast of the ship, I braced myself. As the full force of the storm was now before me, I nearly withered at the power and force of it. As I tied myself to the mast, I held on for dearest life as the ship not just tossed but writhed and convulsed in the hands of the angry tempest. I looked into the sky. It had turned black as pitch; darker than the deepest hole in the Earth. The only light we were given was the angry bolts thrown from the heavens, lighting up the sky. The light revealed the massive clouds that had gathered against the ship. It made this mighty ship seem so small in comparison. It seemed so lost and doomed.
The men on the deck who had been so regimented about their business of sailing this vessel, now seemed to move frantically across the topside in no given order or reason. They fought in vain against the power and intent of the wind itself. The sails were tearing apart and flailing mindless and helpless in the storm. As I starred at the sails, the lighting crashed again; lighting up the heavens and revealing the power of an angry God. This sent many of the men to cry to the heavens. They called the various names of their gods to no avail. Their faith lost to the anger of the sea.
One such man had fallen to his knees, hands toward the angry sky, pleading with the god of the sea to spare them. His answer was another angry lighting crash and a relentless wave from the ocean crashing the deck and forcing all prone before this angry God. When the lightning lit the sky again, this man was gone.
That’s when I noticed a small group of men huddled in what they thought was a safe place. I secured the rope to me and the mast and began to drag myself to them. I dared not try and walk. The rocking of the ship and violent attacks from the sea upon the deck made it near impossible. Luckily, I had enough rope to reach them. Two of the men pulled me up into a corner that blocked much of the storm. But it was impossible to escape it all.
“What are you doing here, boy?” The Captain berated me.
I knew of only one thing to say to him, “We have to turn around and go back to Joppa!!”
The aged veteran of the seas looked at me as if in surrender, “We’re far past that point, boy. I’ve tried. The storm has chosen us for destruction! The gods themselves are angry with us. With one of us!”
Before I could answer, another of the sailors spoke, “Only one thing left to do. We cast lots and see which of us is to blame for their rage!”
“You don’t understand…” I tried to explain.
Suddenly, the Captain interrupted, “Wait. Where is the Prophet?”
“What? We have a Prophet on board?” One of the haggard sailors asked, “What god?”
The other sailor rushed in, “What does it matter? Get him up here and get him to pray!!”
The Captain looked at me, “Where is he? Surely, he knows we are in danger and implores to his god!”
“He sleeps…” Is all I could say.
That was all it took. The Captain, despite the storm, the wind and the waves, marched across the deck to the ladder that led below. The others followed him a bit more unsure. I pulled myself along the rope behind them, realizing that no one was manning the boat now. We were truly at the mercy of the sea.
By the time I got down the ladder and untied myself, the others were already crowded into the Prophet’s cabin.
“What do you mean by this, sleeper?!” the Captain’s voice could be heard saying.
He had dispensed with the niceties and politeness of business. In the hands of this uncaring storm, the Prophet’s gold meant nothing.
Jonah stirred and looked about the room in abject fear.
“Call upon your god! Maybe he will hear you and spare us also!!” The Captain ordered.
One of the other sailors stepped up. It was Maschau. Suddenly, he proclaimed, “It is far too late for that. The sea itself has come for one of us. All we have left is to cast lots to see which of us has caused this!!”
“You can’t be serious.” The Captain tried to rationalize.
But Maschau, who had the attention of the other sailors, ignored the man who had, at one time, given him orders and held his hand out.
“Choose.” He said simply.
And, without question, each of the men slowly chose a stone from his hand. Once each sailor had a stone, Maschau turned and walked over to the Captain who, even now, was kneeling beside the Prophet.
“Choose.” He said and starred at the men.
The Captain stood and starred his underling down, “How dare you…”
The sailor snarled as the other men stepped in behind him, “Choose.”
Suddenly, the Captain realized he was outnumbered. In defeat, he chose a stone.
Maschau turned to me and said sadly, “I am sorry, boy. You must choose.”
I looked up at him in terror and chose a stone for myself. There were three more stones left in his hand. He, then, turned and looked at the Prophet.
Reaching his hand out, he said simply, “Choose.”
The Prophet was horrified,
“You can’t possibly think he…” The Captain started.
Maschau just looked at the Captain dryly, “I think nothing. We cast lots and let the gods tell us!”
“The gods…” The Prophet said and spit, “You think your gods hold any sway with me?”
“Maybe not.” Maschau returned, “Maybe YOUR god has something to say at this time….”
The proud look left the old man’s face as Maschau held his hand down to him. He starred at the stones for a long time. When suddenly the lightning struck close. All of the men looked up in response.
A voice came from above, “The ship’s been hit, Captain! It is on fire!!”
Maschau looked back down at the Prophet and repeated, “Choose and choose quickly.”
The Prophet brought his hand up to the sailors and hovered there for a while. He passed over each stone, one by one. Undecided, he almost couldn’t bring himself to make the choice. He looked up at the men again hoping for a reprieve. There was none given. They simply starred resolute in their decision. So, with no other choice ahead of him, he chose a stone.
Maschau looked at the men and instructed, “Now, we cast them.”
None of the men questioned what was done next. They, one by one, threw the stone they had chosen into an unmarked circle between them all. I finally tossed mine and waited. All eyes turned to the Captain and the Prophet, both obviously afraid of the results of the casting. Both had their reasons. The Captain felt responsible for these men and this ship, I was sure. He, no doubt, felt he knew the results of this test. But, bravely, he cast anyway.
Finally, the Prophet gave up his stone, tossing into the fray. It spun to the floor; a crash of lightning marking the casting. It rolled amongst the others finally resting in the dead center. Looking over the stones, I could see the different markings of each lot. Etchings of a distant past far from a translation. They had merely become various scratching on rock. But, tonight, they meant so much more. Each one declared the innocence of most of the men standing in the cabin. But, one stone in particular separated itself from the others. For on the side of the stone we could see there was not a marking. It was dark, silent, yet it spoke volumes. It was blank; so different from the others. It singled itself out as the odd cast. It was the guilt man’s stone. And it was the Prophet’s.
FINALE
“Tell us!” Maschau ordered! “For what reason have you brought this trouble to us?!!”
The hardened sailor began to pace and run his hand through his hair. He was irate as were all in the room.
“What do you do? What is your occupation?” One of the others shouted.
The Captain just realized he was in the clear and joined in their anger, “Where do you come from? What country? Who are your people?”
The man had known he was a Prophet, a holy man, but, once the gold got passed, he didn’t care where from or what god.
Jonah took a deep breath and explained, “I am a Hebrew and I fear Yahweh Elohim, the supreme God of heaven who MADE the sea…and the dry land.”
Dry land sounded real good right now.
“It’s because you refused to go to Nineveh, is it not?” I asked without thinking.
“Nineveh? What about Nineveh?” Maschau asked.
The Prophet began to evade our eyes. I felt obliged to respond.
“He as much as told me that he was commanded to go there by His God,” I reported, “and he refused. In fact, he is running to Tarshish.”
The Captain looked at the Prophet accusingly, “Why have you done this?”
The elder had no answer. He just bowed his head.
Suddenly, the lightning crashed again and the ship tossed heavily to one side. The seamen, who had been raised, much like me, on a ship, now lost all manner of control. It was obvious that they had never experienced seas this volatile. Many fell hard to the floor. Others were thrown against the far wall. The room almost turned completely on its side as it seemed we would totally capsize.
But the room righted and the men got to their feet. That's when the men became frantic.
One of the sailors dropped to his knees before the Prophet and pleaded, “What can we do to you to make the sea spare us?!”
The Prophet looked around the room. I am sure he was looking at all of the scrolls he had brought with him now scattered across the floor of the room. All of that writing. All of that knowledge. It didn’t seem to be helping him now. A tear ran down his cheek, but I wasn’t sure it had anything to do with him being sorry. Everything he was about was now thrown about the floor. A life in service to his deity, now such a waste. The ship, even now, groaned against the assault of the storm. It would not take this attack for long.
Suddenly, this man named Jonah who had come on board with such an air of importance and arrogance now collapsed in surrender, “Take me and throw me into the sea. Once I am tossed into the depths, you will be fine. This is all my fault.”
The men all looked at each other. You could tell they wanted nothing to do with this idea. They struggled for a while with the decision.
“NO! To oars, men!” The Captain ordered, “We can save the ship! Back to Joppa!”
Without question, the men fled the room to their posts. The Prophet was left dumbfounded.
“Did they not hear me? Do they not understand?” The Prophet asked.
The Captain stopped in the door and looked back, “You serve this God who made the seas. They and I also fear causing harm to this deity’s servant. No, we row.”
The Captain disappeared out the door and to the deck. I and the Prophet could hear the men struggle against the sea. We could hear the Captain barking orders. Jonah just shook his head.
“It is futile.” The Prophet summed it up, “Cannot they see this? I told them what to do and they would not listen. They sentence me and all of them to death.”
We sat in silence for a while; listening to the men attempt to row the ship out of the storm.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to speak, “They struggle hopelessly topside to save your life. All you have to do is call upon your God and agree to go to Nineveh! It is simple.”
Still the elder sat silent. I could see him struggle. But it wasn’t enough for me.
“Why do you hesitate?!! Just call out to your God and save us!!” I screamed walking toward him.
Once again, he struggled, but now he wept bitterly, “Just throw me into the sea and it will all be over.”
I stood before this man astounded. He sat there unwilling to repent. Obviously, he would rather die than go to Nineveh.
“That is not good enough. Nineveh still is destroyed. Do not you even care?” I yelled at the old man.
“I am sorry.” Is all he would say.
The storm suddenly grew in fervor. The ship tossed back and forth; jerking like a person possessed. I and the Prophet were thrown to the floor as the door flew open, allowing the rage of the sea to invade. There was sea water everywhere. Swallowing some of it and Coughing and gasping, I pulled myself up finding the room had finally righted itself. I also found that I was suddenly alone. I turned to the door, still swinging open and saw the Prophet pulling himself along the floor.
“If they will not do it, I will do it myself!” He shouted over the raging storm as he pulled himself up in the doorway.
“NO!” I screamed, “Just go to Nineveh! End this insanity!”
The Prophet simply looked at me and said, “No…”
Then, he disappeared up to the deck. I found myself on my feet again and running for the ladder. As quick as I could, I was on deck again. The sea was all around us; closing in on us. There was nowhere to run or hide. I quickly grabbed the mast as the ship leaned heavy. There was a massive crack and it wasn’t the lightning. Looking around, I could see several of the men abandoning the oars.
“Rowing is useless!” Maschau reported, “We do not have any other choice!”
The Captain looked so lost, “There must be…I cannot...”
Maschau looked over the Captain’s shoulder and saw the Prophet standing on the deck. The Captain realized this and turned to see the elder standing behind him.
“You don’t have another choice.” The Elder said.
I pulled myself to the old man’s side, “No, but YOU do.”
Jonah turned and shot me an angry look. He ignored me and repeated to the Captain, “Throw me into the sea and this all ends for you. You want to save yourself? It is what you have to do.”
The men gathered in the middle of the deck and fell to their knees before the Prophet. They didn’t want to be responsible for this man’s death. They didn’t want to take the chance of angering his God.
The Captain raised his hands and looked to the angry heavens, “We pray to you, oh, Yahweh. Please, we beseech you, oh, great Yahweh, do not allow us to perish because of this man’s life. And do not charge us with his innocent blood. For you, oh, Yahweh, have done what has pleased you!”
The Prophet turned to me, a mixture of rain and tears flooding his face.
I pleaded one last time as the tears came to my face as well, “Just go to Nineveh. Save them. Please…”
He bowed his head as the men fell upon him. They picked him up and raised him over their heads. Without another thought, they threw him into the violent sea. Once he had disappeared into the depths, the raging storm ceased its protest. The wind disappeared. The waves calmed. Suddenly, we were saved.
The men dropped to their knees and began to cry out to the God of Jonah, this Yahweh. They clumsily poured out their adoration for their lives. Most of them could not even pronounce this God’s name. One of them had gone down below and retrieved a young lamb they were saving for one of the meals. Without hesitation, he cut it open; spilling its blood all over the deck. He looked to the calm heavens and proceeded to light it on fire.
A sacrifice in honor of this new God. I just stood and walked to the side of the ship and looked over the placid ocean. Jonah was gone. And we were saved. It was more than I could say for Nineveh. Why did this God pursue the old man so? Why not let him go? Why go to such lengths to no avail? I had to know.
I stared into the depths looking for Jonah’s body, but never saw it. Oh, I saw movement alright. Some of it rather huge. But no Prophet.
I spent the rest of the trip there, looking out into the endless sea. The Captain and his men struggled to bring the crippled ship back to port, but he never forced me to help. He did, however, pay me my portion of the gold the Prophet had given him. I’m not even sure he kept any of it; probably not wanting anything to do with it. All of us would rather have forgotten the Prophet. But, as it was, that was going to be difficult. He and his God had left an indelible mark on all of our lives. Some more than others.
Most of the men, who had praised this new God just a few hours ago, now returned to their lives unscathed. They went about their lives as if nothing had happened; as if the God who made the seas hadn’t just spared their lives. I, however, couldn’t just walk away from this.
Oh, I had no problem walking away from that ship. As far as that was concerned, I didn’t hesitate to leave the life of a sailor behind me forever. The gold I had been given would take care of my family for months; enough time for my younger brothers to find employment. No, if I had decided anything in all of this, it was that it was time for me to break off on my own and find my way in this world. The Prophet, whether he meant to or not, left me with a yearning in my heart to know more.
No, I couldn’t just go on with life as it was. I had stared the God of the Hebrews in the face and he had spared me. There had to be a reason why. And I was determined to find that reason. I knew the only way to find that reason was to go to this Promised Land that this God had supposedly given His people. I had to search out the truth in all of this. Because, despite the Prophet, I had tasted of his God and I wanted to know Him more.
As I prepared to leave Joppa probably for good, I hesitated at the fork in the road ahead. I knew that before I traveled to Israel to search out the truths of this God, I would need to travel to the land of my ancestors first. I had to go to Nineveh. Maybe it had already been destroyed. That I did not know. But I had to find out. And, if the city still stood, I had to warn them. I had to tell them about my encounter with this God and how, surely, He was worth bending a knee to. I had to tell them how He had spared my life and of how I had to find out why. No, I had to tell them about his power and majesty and how I, the crew and the Captain had faced death in the presence of this angry God; No, Nineveh had to hear about how we all SURVIVED THE PROPHET.
This is where THIS story ends. But to read what God did next, you will need to read JONAH in the Old Testament.
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