Jonah: Prayer of Despair

Jonah 2:1-9

Then Jonah prayed to the Lord his God from the belly of the fish, saying, “I called to the Lord out of my distress, and he answered me; out of the belly of Sheol I cried, and you heard my voice. You cast me into the deep, into the heart of the seas, and the flood surrounded me; all your waves and your billows passed over me. Then I said, ‘I am driven away from your sight; how shall I look again upon your holy temple?’ The waters closed in over me; the deep surrounded me; weeds were wrapped around my head at the roots of the mountains. I went down to the land whose bars closed upon me forever; yet you brought up my life from the Pit, O Lord my God. As my life was ebbing away, I remembered the Lord; and my prayer came to you, into your holy temple. Those who worship vain idols forsake their true loyalty. But I with the voice of thanksgiving will sacrifice to you; what I have vowed I will pay. Deliverance belongs to the Lord!”

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First of all, it’s meaningful to see Jonah’s prayer as one about thanksgiving as much as it is about despair. Oddly enough, Jonah sees his place in the belly of that fish as a sign of God’s deliverance. What most of us would imagine as a great source of despair – being swallowed by a large fish and living in its gut for three days – was ultimately seen as a sign of his rescue, for Jonah.

His real fear … the great despair … to which he refers in the prayer we just heard, actually took place on the ship and in the storm that landed him in the sea in the first place. I’ve talked before about what a source of fear and punishment the sea was for ancient people – and for those in Jesus’ day, too. The sea and its depths were as unknown as outer space is – or has been – for us. Without means to deep sea dive, snorkel, or see beyond the depths to which even the best swimmer might swim on a single breath’s worth of air, what lived and moved beneath the surface of the sea was left to the imagination – and that was terrifying. (I’d still much rather swim in a pool than a pond, to be honest.)

And not only that, Jonah was under the impression that it was his own disobedience that caused the storm and upset the crew of the ship on which he had stowed away, and that got him tossed overboard into the deadly waters that closed over him, that surrounded him with weeds and darkness, until his life ebbed away with the waves that engulfed and threatened him.

In those moments Jonah sounds as desperate as Jesus on the Cross. He talks about being removed from the home and presence of God – the Temple in Jerusalem – where God was believed to live and move and breathe. He laments the prospect of never getting back there. And Jonah wails about the Sea, he bemoans the Pit, and he cries over Sheol – all expressions of utter lostness, insurmountable distance from the Divine, despair upon despair upon despair.

It reminds me of Jesus, dying on the cross, when he cries, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me.” The separation, the distance and the lostness sound familiar. And I’m always struck by the way Walt Wangerin describes that moment, which we’ll hear again on Good Friday. He calls it “obliteration,” says, “not even God was there,” imagines that Jesus had been “blotted out of the book of life,” and that “the universe was silenced” by Christ’s cry of despair.

So, as we gather on this last of our Wednesday worship services inspired by the prayers of our ancestors … with Holy Week on the horizon … as we wonder about what it means to pray while in the throes of despair … we are in good company. Not just that of Jonah, but of Jesus, too.

And, I want our feelings of despair – and our invitation to pray our way with and through that desperation – to serve as an expression of hope and as some inkling of the faith that may seem missing in our most desperate moments... days… seasons… whatever.

When the diagnosis seems like you’ve been plunged into the depths of the sea…

When the grief feels like you’ve been swallowed up and carried far from anything safe, or sure, or like home…

When the pain and suffering literally hurts, burns, and stings like Sheol…

When the fear, frustration, and stubbornness of whatever it is that just won’t give feels as insurmountable as the highest mountain or as deep as the darkest pit...

When the unknown wraps itself around your heart of hearts like so many weeds and refuses to relent…

It may help to know – hard as it is may be to see or celebrate in the moment – what Jonah trusted: that the same sea that caused his despair in the first place was also home to the fish that delivered him to dry land, in the end.

I don’t mean for this to sound like a platitude. I’m not implying that God gives us our troubles as a test of faith. I’m certainly not saying our despair is unfounded or unfaithful, or pretending that we don’t have a right to our desperation when it comes.

In fact, and this may sound harsh – and hard to hear or believe, coming from your Pastor – and I could be wrong. But I kind of think that if you haven’t found reason to despair at certain times in your life – if you haven’t lost or left your faith or felt lost or left by your faith or by our God at some point – maybe you’re just better than the rest of us; maybe you’re not watching the news; or maybe you’re not living in the same reality as so many of the rest of us.

And I’m fairly certain that – no matter how great your faith, how deep your trust – if it hasn’t happened to you yet, despair will find you. And you’ll feel left with nothing but the desire and need to try to pray your way out of it. And sometimes that kind of despair is exactly how, where, and when God shows up for us. In the emptiness. In the void. In the doubt and fear and uncertainty we’re running from or feel so self-righteously indignant about in those moments when we’ve given up, chucked it all, thrown in the towel, felt like our life, our purpose, our hope is ebbing away into oblivion.

And that kind of desperation is sad and scary, for sure. Not sinful, mind you. But sad and scary and lonely, as can be.

So tonight, let’s acknowledge the despair that has found us – or that will one day. Let’s not be afraid to give it a voice, like Jonah did and like Jesus does, too. And let’s be as patient as we are able, as faithful as God allows, and let’s let love hold us, until hope – however great or small – returns by the grace of God.

Because it’s also worth knowing that when Jesus cried “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?” He was quoting Psalm 22. He knew his scripture, remember. So, in the depths of his despair, he was praying the prayers of his ancestors, much like we’ve been trying to do. And it’s believed Jesus latched onto that particular Psalm because he knew it ended with the kind of hope he was so desperately clinging to – or trying to find.

That Psalm starts with “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”; it begins with words of groaning, mockery, and sneering … it starts with feeling despised and scorned and in need of rescue (just like Jonah) … it points to Jesus feeling poured out like water, bones out of joint, a heart melting in his chest, and being layed out like the dust of death, surrounded by dogs and bulls and evildoers, and more …

But that Psalm – that prayer - ends, in spite of all that, with a request for – with hope that – with belief in – God’s capacity and desire for rescue. Hope for a God who will deliver and be worthy of praise. Trust in a God who does not despise… neglect… ignore… or hide.

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Though I know you won’t forever!

May our prayers be as desperate and despairing; as honest and hopeless; as angry and afraid and as overwhelmed and underwater as we feel more often than we wish was true. And because of that – may they also be tinged with – and leave plenty of room – for God’s rescue to find us, for God’s love to win the day, for God’s grace to lead us to the dry land of our deliverance.

Amen

It's Not About the Fish

Luke 5:1-11

Once while Jesus was standing beside the lake of Gennesaret, and the crowd was pressing in on him to hear the word of God, he saw two boats there at the shore of the lake; the fishermen had gone out of them and were washing their nets.

He got into one of the boats, the one belonging to Simon, and asked him to put out a little way from the shore. Then he sat down and taught the crowds from the boat. When he had finished speaking, he said to Simon, ‘Put out into the deep water and let down your nets for a catch.’

Simon answered, ‘Master, we have worked all night long but have caught nothing. Yet if you say so, I will let down the nets.’ When they had done this, they caught so many fish that their nets were beginning to break.

So they signaled to their partners in the other boat to come and help them. And they came and filled both boats, so that they began to sink.

But when Simon Peter saw it, he fell down at Jesus’ knees, saying, ‘Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!’ For he and all who were with him were amazed at the catch of fish that they had taken; and so also were James and John, sons of Zebedee, who were partners with Simon. Then Jesus said to Simon, ‘Do not be afraid; from now on you will be catching people.’ When they had brought their boats to shore, they left everything and followed him.

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My dad was a car salesman when I was growing up. He worked an odd schedule: 8 a.m. to 2 p.m. one day and 2 p.m. to 8 p.m. the next. One summer when I was about seven, he bought a little jon boat with an old motor.

On the days he didn’t have to go in until the afternoon, my dad, my brother, and I would strap the boat in the bed of the truck and head to Shadyside Lake for the morning. It was always a competition to see who would catch the most fish.

My dad usually came in last, though he’d tell you it was because I didn’t like taking my fish off the hook. It didn’t matter anyway because Chad always seemed to outcatch us. But our time fishing was never really about how many fish we caught.

We fished for sport, of course—just time for a father and his sons to be together, like every father wants. But for Simon Peter and the others, fishing was their job, their livelihood, a central part of their identity.

Their boat would have been one of, if not the most, important things they owned. So I wonder if Simon hesitated when Jesus asked him to put it out a little way from the shore so he could preach to the crowd pressing in on him. Whatever the case, Jesus went out on the lake, sat down, and preached.

When it was over, I’m sure Simon was ready to shake Jesus’ hand and say, “Great sermon today, Rabbi. Thank you very much. Let’s get you back to shore.” But that’s not what Jesus wanted. No, Jesus said, “Let’s go back out. I want to fish. I know where you should go.”

Do you think that’s what Simon really wanted to do? He had been out all night away from his family. He still had to wash the nets, and to make matters worse, he had caught nothing. No fish meant no money. No money meant all sorts of questions—how would he feed his family or buy the necessary supplies to keep his business afloat? So Simon responded, “Master, we were at this all night and caught nothing.” In other words: Jesus, take it from me—there's nothing out there.

I wonder how many times Simon rowed his boat ashore with empty nets. This likely wasn’t the first time. And think for a moment how hard that must have been—how it would leave Simon feeling. This was the thing he was supposed to be an expert in, the thing he’d done all his life. Like me, he spent many days fishing with his dad. So I imagine each time he spent all night on that boat and caught nothing, his inner critic was loud:

“You’re not a good fisherman, which means you’re not a good provider or husband. You don’t really know what you’re doing. You’re incompetent. You fail at this just like you do everything else.”

I have no doubt that voice left him feeling like he wasn’t good enough, smart enough, or rich enough. What he felt was despair. And when you feel that way, the last thing you want to do is go back out and try again.

Surely you know what that’s like—not for your nets to be empty, but to fail at the very thing you’re supposed to be good at. Or for your expertise to let you down. I have to believe you are no stranger to that inner critic telling you that you are not good enough, smart enough, or rich enough. If you are anything like me, you hear it nearly every night, saying you didn’t do enough today. You should have done more or done it better—because if you had, maybe people would see your worth. Maybe God would too.

Maybe your inner critic replays each encounter you had throughout the day, making you question what you said or did. Or perhaps it reminds you of all the mistakes you’ve made and why you aren’t worthy of love or joy.

How do we not fall into despair and self-doubt when we hear this?

But then Simon changes his mind and says to Jesus, “Yet if you say so.” Those five words are what being a follower of Jesus is all about. I’m not sure about this, God, but I’ll give it a go. I’ve got my doubts—about this and about myself—yet I trust you. I really don’t want to do this, Jesus, yet if you say so.

Simon says those five words and does as Jesus says. You know the story from there: the disciples catch a whole school of fish, and their nets begin to tear. So they call over their partners to bring another boat. Once help arrives, both boats are swimming in so many fish that they begin to sink. Now, it would be easy to get caught up in the fish, to think they are the most important, most miraculous part of this story. We could even twist this story to mean that if I am obedient to Jesus—if I just do what God says—then I too will get a miracle.

You likely don’t want a literal boatload of fish, yet you might hope for some miracle of abundance.

But don’t focus on the fish; that’s not the point of the story. If we do, we miss the most miraculous part—namely, that the Savior of the world is on board with them. The fish simply point to what’s most important: sitting beside them on their little boat is God in the flesh!

Everyone who saw the catch was amazed, but it is Simon who realizes what it means. So he turns to Jesus and says, “Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man.” In other words: I am not worthy for you to be on my boat. I’m not worthy because I doubted you. I’m not worthy because I’m just a fisherman, and not a good one at that. If you only knew me and my sin, if you heard my inner critic, then you too, Jesus, would know I’m not worthy.

But that’s exactly why Jesus got into the boat. He didn’t get on that boat because Simon had earned it. Clearly, it wasn’t Simon’s fantastic fishing skills that lured Jesus. If anything, it was the opposite. If anything, it was because the nets were empty. It was because Simon hadn’t caught any fish. It was because of the self-doubt and despair this so-called fisherman must have been feeling. If Simon had hauled in a huge catch the night before, what need would he have had for Jesus? It’s all grace that Jesus was on Simon’s boat. It wasn’t merit—because that’s not how the kingdom of God works. Jesus was there because Simon was in need.

The best news for all of us who hear that inner critic, who are familiar with despair and self-doubt, is that the same is true for us. God is in your boat—not because you are worthy, not because of your merit, not because what you think you are good at. It is because our nets are empty. It is because we have failed. It is because we are in need that Jesus gets on board. If we never doubted, if we never failed, what need would we have for such grace? It is grace that silences the inner critic, telling us that we are enough, we are worthy, because we are loved.

“Do not be afraid, from now you will catch people”. That’s our job, too. All around us people are falling into despair and self-doubt from the words of their inner critic, all of it amplified by the world we live in.

We are tasked with catching them by offering the same grace we have received in Jesus Christ. It’s getting on board with them when their nets are empty. It’s helping them—not because they’ve earned it, but because they need it.

Just as with my dad and brother, it’s not about the fish. It’s about recognizing that, as unworthy as we are, Jesus is on board with us, guiding us where we should go and what we should do. And even when we are unsure or unwilling to follow, may we have the strength and courage to respond: “But if you say so.”

Amen.