The Practice of Solidarity: Cultivating a “Prophetic Voice” that Sounds Like Jesus, not Jonah

These days, it’s common to hear people talk about being “prophetic.” Sometimes it means calling out injustice or speaking hard truths. Other times, it’s a badge of honor and a way to set oneself apart as a truth-teller, a voice in the wilderness. But let’s be honest: sometimes the truth of what people are saying is lost because they’re just arrogant, loud, and judgemental. The prophets of the Old Testament have prophets like this: Jonah. In fact, they are the few “successful” prophets in the sense that people listen to them, respond to them, even repent because of them. But like Jonah, these prophets often remain distant, defensive, and self-righteous. Their words might have power and align with God’s heart, but their internal world seems disconnected from the heart of God.

But there’s another way to be prophetic: a way we see in the lives of Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Ezekiel. These were the weeping prophets and you know what? They were not the victorious ones. They weren’t listened to. They weren’t platformed. They didn’t go viral. They suffered, wept, and were often ignored in their time. But they didn’t just speak the word of the Lord: they embodied it. Literally. They shared in the grief of their people. They carried the burden of a love that was rejected. And in doing so, they pointed to a different kind of power: one rooted in presence, not performance.

And then Jesus comes. Not as a new Jonah, smug in his success, but as the fulfillment of the weeping prophets. He doesn’t stand above humanity, disgusted by our violence and hypocrisy. He moves toward us. He enters our pain. He shares in our sins, not by committing them, but by carrying them. Jesus shows us that the most faithful form of prophetic witness is not “calling people out” from a distance, bur standing with them, taking responsibility, and refusing to abandon them in their brokenness.

This is the path of prophetic solidarity.
This is the way of Jesus.
And it’s the kind of prophetic movement we want to build.

When Jesus says he’s like Jonah, he’s not handing out compliments. In Matthew 12, Jesus references Jonah as a sign and a clue about what’s coming. But if you take a closer look, what Jesus is actually doing is turning the whole story inside out. Again and again, Jesus refers back to the Hebrew Scriptures not just to affirm them, but to subvert and fulfill them in a way that upends expectations. He doesn’t just echo the past, he rewrites it with the ink of love and the blood of solidarity.

And Jonah’s a curious choice. He’s the only prophet in the Hebrew Bible whose words lead to real repentance, yet he’s also the prophet who tried hardest to run away. He didn’t fear failure; he feared success. He was scared that God’s mercy might actually work on people like them: violent, idolatrous outsiders in Nineveh. And he didn’t want to be a part of that. But Jesus is a different kind of prophet.

While Jonah boards a boat to flee the calling, Jesus steps into the boat on purpose: to cross the Sea of Galilee into Gentile territory. He’s not avoiding the outsiders. He’s going straight to them. He doesn’t begrudge the wideness in God’s mercy, he embodies it. Where Jonah is vomited up on a beach in reluctant obedience, Jesus walks out of a tomb in radiant glory. Where Jonah was cast out for his disobedience, Jesus is lifted up because of his obedience, an obedience that looks like love, even unto death. That’s why Jesus says, “Something greater than Jonah is here.”

And here’s the twist: Jesus actually resembles the so-called “unsuccessful” prophets of Israel: Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel. These prophets weren’t celebrated in their own time. They were marginalized, mocked, and persecuted. Their messages weren’t taken seriously until everything fell apart, until the first Temple was destroyed and their words were suddenly remembered. Similarly, Jesus is brushed aside by the religious elite, written off as just another troublemaker who hangs with the wrong crowd. But his radical hospitality that welcomed tax collectors, sex workers, Roman soldiers, and sinners is vindicated not just by his resurrection, but by history itself. The Second Temple falls, and Jesus, once rejected, is revealed as the cornerstone.

Jesus is also a new Joshua, same name in Hebrew, different spelling in Greek. But instead of leading a conquest into a promised land, Jesus steps into the waters of baptism not for his own sins, but to identify with ours. He doesn’t need cleansing, but he joins us in the muck anyway. It’s not judgment, it’s solidarity. It’s not coercion, it’s consent.

And that’s the throughline of Jesus’s life and ministry:

He doesn’t rule like Adam, blaming others.
He doesn’t fight like David, wielding power for self-gain.
He doesn’t conquer like Joshua, driving people out.

He loves.
He joins.
He stays.

He doesn’t dominate; he descends.
He doesn’t coerce; he invites.
He doesn’t stand apart from our pain; he moves toward it.

This is the Jesus we’re invited to trust.
This is the gospel that flips the script.
This is the kingdom that looks like love.

In Jesus, we don’t just get a prophet, but a God who chose solidarity with the suffering and the sinners. And in this, we are shown a whole new way of being human. Prophetic voices like “Jonah” may have powerful and true words, but the distance and attitude are erosive to themselves and community. As a movement, we desire to be counted among the weeping prophets. To draw near and identify with the greatest sins, the greatest sufferings as an act of worship to our great Savior. 

By Dennae Pierre & John DelHousaye