Jonah has finally done what God asked.
He preached in Nineveh. The city repented. Everyone put on sackcloth.
And instead of rejoicing, Jonah sulks.

The prophet who should be shouting “Alleluia!” sits under a tree, arms folded, muttering:
“I knew it. I knew You’d forgive them. You’re too merciful!”

It’s one of the strangest pictures in Scripture: a prophet angry because God is good.

Jonah wants mercy for himself, but justice for everyone else.
He wants salvation, but only for his kind of people.

So God sends a lesson.
He makes a leafy plant grow over Jonah, giving him shade.
Jonah is delighted — at last, something goes his way.

But the next morning, God sends a worm that eats the plant, and a scorching wind that makes Jonah faint.

Then God asks:
“Jonah, are you right to be angry about the plant?”

Jonah says: “Yes — angry enough to die!”

And God replies:
“You pity the plant, which cost you nothing and lasted one day. Should I not pity Nineveh — that great city where more than 120,000 people live, who do not know their right hand from their left?”

It’s a divine punchline.
Jonah cares more for a plant than for people.
He feels deeply when something his is taken away, but not when others are lost.

And the book ends there — with the question hanging in the air:
Do you share God’s mercy, or your own?

Jonah is not an ancient cartoon. He’s a mirror.
We all have a bit of Jonah in us.

We like God’s mercy — when it’s for us.
But when it’s for someone who hurt us, someone we don’t like, someone we’ve written off — we grumble:
“Lord, not them.”

We prefer a God who agrees with our grudges.
But the real God — the God of the Gospel — breaks our grudges open with mercy.

Jonah wants a God who smites sinners.
Instead, he finds a God who spares them.
He wanted to draw boundaries; God draws bigger circles.

Mercy offends the proud because it exposes how much we ourselves depend on it.
God is saying: “Jonah, I showed you mercy in the belly of the whale. How can you deny it to others?”

And He says the same to us: “I’ve forgiven you more than you can imagine. Don’t measure others by a scale I never used for you.”

Then we turn to the Gospel — and find the antidote to Jonah’s bitterness: prayer.

The disciples say, “Lord, teach us to pray.”
And Jesus gives them the Our Father.

Not My Father, but Our Father.

The prayer begins by breaking Jonah’s illusion of isolation.
You can’t say “Our Father” and still hate your brother.
You can’t say “forgive us” and still refuse to forgive.

Prayer reshapes the heart.
Every “Our Father” is a slow surgery of grace, cutting away the selfishness that makes us Jonahs.

Let’s look briefly:

“Our Father, who art in heaven.”
→ Jonah forgot that God is Father — not just of Israel, but of Nineveh too.

“Hallowed be Thy Name.”
→ Jonah wanted God’s reputation as judge. God reveals His glory in mercy.

“Thy Kingdom come.”
→ Jonah wanted his own kingdom of revenge. God’s kingdom comes through compassion.

“Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.”
→ Jonah wanted forgiveness without forgiving. The Our Father leaves no room for that.

Prayer and mercy belong together.
A prayerless heart becomes a bitter heart.
A prayerful heart becomes merciful, because it stays close to the God who is mercy.

There’s an old line from the Fathers:
“Jonah sat under a withered plant; the Christian sits under the shadow of the Cross.”

Jonah’s plant gave comfort for a day.
The Cross gives salvation forever.

Jonah’s shade vanished when the sun rose.
The Cross stands firm, even in darkness.

And on that Cross, Christ prays for His enemies: “Father, forgive them.”
That’s the exact opposite of Jonah’s prayer.

Every time we look at the Cross, God is asking us the same question He asked Jonah:
“Should I not have pity?”

Who is your Nineveh?
Who have you written off?
Who do you quietly hope God will punish?

Maybe a family member, an ex-friend, someone who hurt you, someone who stands for everything you disagree with.

God says: “I love them too. Pray for them.”
Not because they’re right, but because mercy is the only thing that can make anyone right.

If Jonah had prayed for Nineveh instead of resenting it, he would have shared in God’s joy.
Instead, he sat in the heat of his own anger.

Prayer brings us into the shade of grace.
Bitterness leaves us to burn in the desert of our pride.

Jonah’s story ends with a question mark.
The Gospel gives us the answer: Our Father.

Jonah sulked under a plant that died.
We kneel under a Cross that lives.

Jonah refused to forgive.
Christ taught us to pray forgiveness every day.

Jonah ran from Nineveh.
Christ runs toward us, again and again, with mercy.

So the question returns — this time to us:

Will you be Jonah, sitting in the sun of resentment?
Or will you be a disciple, praying, “Our Father… forgive us as we forgive”?