The Real Story of Jonah

For those of us who grew up in the church, the story of Jonah is typically reserved for the children.  God told Jonah to go to Nineveh to preach.  Jonah was bad and said no and got on a boat instead.  God caused a big storm.  The other people on the boat were scared and threw Jonah into the water.  The storm stopped.  A great fish swallowed Jonah.  Jonah was in the belly of the fish for three days.  Jonah prayed.  The fish vomited Jonah onto dry land.  Jonah went to Nineveh.  Nineveh listened and repented.  God forgave the city.

One of my new year's resolutions is to finally complete my new year's resolutions from years past of reading through the Bible.  It has been decided -- 2017 is going to be the year.  I mean, I have a daily set time and everything this go-around.  Doing this thing for real.

So I'm chugging along in my handy chronological reading plan on the Youversion Bible app, and I come across the book of Jonah.  Easy peasy lemon squeezy reading, I think to myself.  (Well, other than the terrifying ocean parts with the giant creature and all.)

The tale culminates in chapter 3, where Jonah learns his lesson and makes the trek over to Nineveh, where he does his rendition of The Ring's "SEVEN DAYS" phone call.  

"Yet forty days, and Nineveh shall be overthrown!"

I've seen people make claims like this all the time, most notably yelling on the drag or on dirty 6th during my time in Austin, but this time was different.  "And the people of Nineveh believed God.  They called for a fast and put on sackcloth, from the greatest of them to the least of them."

Eventually even the king heard about this warning from Jonah, and he decided to follow the sackcloth fashion trend and issued a decree that the nobody in the entire city was allowed to eat or drink.  Instead, everyone was to "call out mightily to God" and "turn from his evil way and from the violence that is in his hands."

Why?  "Who knows?  God may turn and relent and turn from his fierce anger, so that we may not perish."

And spoiler alert, it worked!  God saw what they did and relented of the impending disaster.

Cue the applause.  What a fun, gift-wrapped story.  Its TV show equivalent would probably be Full House, and this is where Danny Tanner would explain the moral lesson of the episode to an innocent Michelle, Stephanie, and DJ with thoughtful music playing in the background.

But then I reach chapter 4, which isn't really covered in the kid's version of the story I was accustomed to.  At a time when everything should've been splendid, you know, with the city of Nineveh being saved and all, Jonah throws a fit.  He is PISSED.  He didn't care about the city's change of heart.  He didn't care about the sackcloth.  He didn't care about the fast.  He didn't care about the people.  The city should burn anyway!  He was angry at God's compassion.

I would be more disappointed with Jonah if this story wasn't such a compelling display of the human condition.  You can blame it on social media or the millenials or whatever you want, but it's becoming abundantly clear that this world has a selfishness problem.

I think this issue rears its ugly head in many different forms.  I just can't figure out if it's human nature or if it's something we've taught ourselves.

Sometimes it comes across as jealousy.  Why is it that when someone is doing something awesome, one of the first responses people have is "jealous"?  Are we prewired to not be able to just be happy for good things happening to other people without inserting ourselves into the situation?

Other times it comes across as a perverse sense of justice.  Just like Jonah, we tend to think that we are better people than the rest of the messed-up people around us.  As if it made sense for God to show mercy to Jonah, but the 120,000 people in Nineveh were beyond saving.

So what's the solution?  Can we mandate selflessness?  Can we force sympathy?  Maybe the world just needs a giant dose of self-awareness, until finally, someday, we realize that we are all Nineveh.

Why I Didn't March.

I write this out of guilt, self-preservation, frustration, and mostly insecurity. Cool, glad that's out there.

Yesterday, as most of my peers were standing for something under the sun, holding peaceful and beautiful protests in various cities, I was having a casual Saturday enjoying the 50+ degree weather in Chicago. I went to a park with a few friends for the simple purpose of being outside. Just a couple miles South of me, more than 200,000 people gathered in downtown Chicago for the Women's March, taking a stand for various things a day after Trump's inauguration.

On Instagram and Snapchat, I followed posts and stories of close friends at rallies across the country -- friends in Houston, friends in Kansas City, sister in Denver, and neighbors in Chicago. A dear friend responded to a snap of mine asking, "Why aren't you at a rally?!"

Well shit -- why wasn't I at a rally? Didn't I care? Do I support Trump? Am I a bad person? Am I a rapist? Where was my decency? I'm an ass sometimes, but have I stooped that low?

The real answer why I wasn't at a rally: I just wasn't. Same reason why literally millions of others who are anti-Trump and care about women's rights, minorities, etc. weren't at a rally -- they just weren't. They had plans set beforehand. They didn't have plans, but ended up doing something else. They went for a run. They had errands to take care of. They were out of town. They were hungry. They were too far from a rally. It wasn't kid-friendly. They thought it was just for women. They slept in. They were lazy. They don't like crowds.

During the day I felt like I had missed a part of history. And I did. But I miss parts of history every day, some events which are easy for me to take part in. What affected me the most was not that I missed out, but that I felt guilty for having abandoned an apparent civic duty. Barring a valid excuse, like work or emergency, there was an expectation (perhaps self-conjured) that developed as the day went on, that someone of my demographic should be at a rally.

I understand that sentiment. It's like, how can you claim you're a Houston Rockets fan and you don't even watch Game 7 of a playoffs round, and instead you go play mini-golf? But it's not that simple. A single march, albeit an incredibly symbolic one, is not necessarily akin to a game 7. Whereas the success of a basketball team is adequately measured in wins and losses, and the avid support of a team requires at least some participation in critical games, the fight for rights isn't so basic. It's diminishing to think that participation alone at a single event serves as proxy for genuine support. Though yesterday was indeed a success in terms of sheer number, the absence of those who are like-minded and able to attend was not a failure. Progress is incremental, and this battle is multifaceted. There are countless fronts on which this struggle is fought, every day. Yesterday's rallies were not the beginning to something amazing, but instead a continuation of progress that momentarily manifested itself in a very visible, popular way.

It was a beautiful day, one that I chose to experience away from the main event, and one that I will remember for years. However, I will look back upon Trump's presidency and I will not see my absence yesterday as singular indication of my support or disdain. I know where I stand and how I fight -- I trust we all do, no matter how active we are in the spotlight moments.

The Brats Are Coming!

There's a Millennial Crisis. It is real, pervasive, and is mostly annoying. It makes me cringe when I hear it in others, and sometimes also in myself.

The crisis can hit at anytime in the first 10 years of a millennial's working career after college/grad school. It is brought on by steady achievement in the workplace and a favorable world environment (which we are in right now). This Earth is ripe for Millennials. Success stories of like-minded peers making it to the top via unconventional ways (i.e. NOT the corporate ladder) are increasingly close-by: "Oh yea, totally. I know a friend of a friend who made it big."

Everyone is an entrepreneur, and if you don't own a business, you can at least be entrepreneurial in your career. Ever heard that line? It's a wonderful mindset that is empowering, but it also inflates importance. It waters the seed in those who assume they are due more. The fantastical stories of tech startups are now real and close enough to touch (just join a coding school, duh). Just. The next step to modern stardom is just in front of you. Take it, you'd be lazy not to.

Its explicit pursuit of self-preservation is nowadays widely accepted, and even encouraged. There is no longer an assumed loyalty to a vocation. Dedication lasts as long as the attention does. I cringe when I witness it because I think it is generally a detrimental thing. Not only does it create an overly-optimistic and dreamlike view of the path to success, but it forces institutions to react accordingly. Every man for himself, survival of the fittest -- yet everyone believes they are the most fit. And when they don't feel valued, then it's time to pick up and leave rather than seeing the situation for maybe what it is -- the truth: you are not the fittest, and that's okay.

The Millennial Crisis doesn't settle for being a role player. You are a superstar, and if you're not in a superstar position, you will be because that's what you deserve, dammit! Mother said so!

This may be no different from the douchebags that have always existed, or the entitled brat you used to manage at work. People are people, and people can be shitty. The difference here is that the Millennial Crisis is the manifestation of how America evolved since the late 80's -- now, being a brat is masked by genius and admirable ambition. Millennials have made it popular to be shitty. There's no longer just one annoying guy in the room who's an aberration. The room with many annoying guys has been systematically created. The movement has begun to propel itself across generations and into popular culture. We are creating a new social norm of shaming meekness and praising self-worth. Carpe diem is ever alive, and now without much dignity.