The book of Jonah begins with four simple words: "And it came to pass."

That is an unusual way to open a book. It gives the sense that we are picking up in the middle of something already underway — a story that began before this moment and will continue long after it.

Which is exactly right. The story of God reaching toward human beings, calling us by name, pursuing us even when we run — that story did not begin with Jonah. It is as old as the first garden. Jonah is just one chapter in a much longer narrative.

And so are we.

"And it came to pass, the word of the Lord came to Jonah." The ancient Hebrew phrasing reminds us that this is not Jonah's story alone. The word of the Lord comes — to Jonah, yes, but also to every human being God has made and loved and refused to give up on.

It comes in the middle of ordinary life. Not when we have ourselves sorted out or our faith figured out. Not when we have finally become the person we keep meaning to become. It comes in the middle of whatever is actually happening — the mess, the uncertainty, the running, the reluctant turning back.

The word of the Lord came to Jonah. It has come to you, in one form or another, more than once. The question the book of Jonah puts before every reader is the same one it put before him:

How will you respond?

Prayer: Holy god, your word keeps finding us — in the middle of our ordinary days, in the middle of our running, in the middle of our uncertainty. Give us ears to hear it. Give us the courage to respond. We are mid-story, and the ending is not yet written. We trust you with it; through Jesus Christ. Amen.

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Psalm 139 is a beautiful prayer. The writer begins by acknowledging something unsettling — that God knows everything. Every thought, every word before it's spoken, every hidden corner of the heart. 

“Even before a word is on my tongue, you know it completely."

There is real ambivalence in that. The Psalmist isn't entirely sure he wants to be known like that. And I understand it. There are thoughts that cross my mind that I'm not particularly eager to have examined too closely.

But then something shifts in the prayer. The writer begins to trace where God is — in heaven, in the grave, at the farthest limits of the sea — and arrives somewhere unexpected:

"Even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me fast."

Even there. Not judging. Not waiting to condemn. Leading. Holding.

Jonah ran to the farthest place he could imagine — and God was already there. Not to punish him for running, but to lead him home. That is the character of the God we worship.

Whatever you are carrying today — whatever distance you feel from God, whatever you have done or left undone, whatever dark place you find yourself in — the promise of Psalm 139 stands. You have not gone somewhere God is not. You cannot.

Even there, God’s hand is reaching. Even there, he holds us fast.

Prayer: O God, you know us completely — and you have not let go. In the places we are ashamed of, in the distances we have put between us, in the dark corners we have tried to hide — you are already there. Lead us. Hold us fast. Amen.

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A mother of eight children was once asked if she had any favorites.

She thought for a moment and said: "Favorites? Yes, I have favorites. I love the one who is sick until he is well again. I love the one who is in trouble until he is safe again. And I love the one who is farthest away until he comes home."

I have read that a dozen times. It’s not a description of perfect children. It is a description of a love that moves toward need — that finds its way to exactly the place where it is most required. The sick one. The troubled one. The one who has put the most distance between themselves and home.

The Reverend Donald Strobe once wrote about this kind of love: "God is a Divine Parent whose love never stops, a Parent whose love will never give up. You may stop loving God, but God will never stop loving you. You may run away from God — but you will soon find that your legs are too short."

Your legs are too short. I love that. Not as a threat — as a promise. You cannot outrun this love. You cannot put enough distance between yourself and God to make the love stop reaching.

Jonah tried. He bought a ticket for the farthest place he could imagine. And God was already there — not waiting to punish, but to redirect. To bring him home.

If you are the one who is sick, or in trouble, or farthest away today — this love is already moving toward you. You don't have to find your way back on your own. The love comes to meet you.

Prayer: Loving God, we thank you that your love moves toward us — especially in the places where we feel most lost, most far, most unworthy of being found. Remind us today that our legs are too short to outrun your grace. Meet us where we are. Bring us home. Amen.

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When God called the prophet Jonah to go preach to Nineveh, Jonah did not argue or negotiate. He simply got up, went down to the nearest port, and bought a ticket headed for the far side of the known world.

Nineveh was the last place he wanted to go. So he aimed for Tarshish instead — somewhere near the edge of the known world, a distant, idealized port associated with gold and ivory and adventure. The jumping-off place. Paradise.

I understand that impulse completely. Early in my ministry, when relationships in the congregation got messy and difficult — as they always do — I used to daydream about leaving it all behind, getting a job on a golf course on the driving range, operating the cart that picks up range balls…. People might take pop shots at me, but at the end of the day, it’s not the kind of job you take home with you.

We all have our version of Tarshish. The fantasy of the simpler life, the fresh start, the place where the problems won't follow us. The perfect job, the perfect location, the clean slate somewhere new.

The pastor and writer Eugene Peterson said it plainly: "Whatever else Tarshish is — Tarshish is a lie."

Because the problems do follow us. The difficult relationships, the unresolved grief, the parts of ourselves we were hoping to leave behind — they buy a ticket on the same boat. We can't outrun ourselves. And we can't outrun God.

Most often, what we are running from has a way of being exactly what we most need to turn toward.

Prayer: Lord God, we confess that we have our versions of Tarshish — the escapes we reach for when life gets hard. Gently turn us around. Help us to face what we have been avoiding, trusting that your presence is with us there too. Amen.

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It was Betty Tallmadge who said, "Life is what happens to you when you're making other plans." Serendipitous things happen if we are willing to let them. Our plans must be adjustable to allow life to do what it will with us. We collect seashells with our children but fall in love with the hobby ourselves. We search for a particular painting but come upon a gorgeous piece of furniture instead. We take an elective course as a filler and end up pursuing the field professionally. After the death of a Rabbi, one of his disciples was asked, "What was most important for your teacher?" The disciple thought for a moment and replied, "Whatever he happened to be doing at the moment." 

Friend of Dial Hope, no matter where you are - driving in a car, the sanctity of your home, vacationing, a hospital bed, at your place of work - live fully this day, which is an unrepeatable miracle. Be open to surprises. Be playful. Focus on the constant sacrament of the little moments. 

Let us pray: O God of all precious things, including animals and the majesty of your creation, who hears our pain even when fears block our words, create in us a heart of laughter and hope. May your spirit of comfort still the anxiety of those who live with enormous pressure and stress; may it fill the emptiness of lost and lonely lives. Weave your love, joy, and gratitude into the tapestry of our moments this day. Thank you, God. Amen.

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