Late September. We were watching the weather closely.
Hurricane season. Helene had gained strength in the
Gulf of Mexico, and the path pointed toward western
North Carolina. Where my parents moved in retirement.
Home to my sister, brother-in-law, nephew, and niece.
On Friday morning, a text from my mother. We’re
evacuating. For the next twenty-eight hours, we
heard nothing. Calls went to voicemail. Texts went
unanswered. We called their church and friends in the
area, but no one had heard from them. No one had
information about them. We watched the news coverage
with increasingly anxious hearts. Finally, late Saturday
morning, the phone rang. I heard my mother’s voice, and
relief washed over me. The relief was short-lived, quickly
followed by sadness as we heard firsthand accounts of
the utter devastation Helene had left behind. Lives lost.
Homes destroyed. Whole communities wiped out by the
unrelenting rush of water and wind. The images were
unimaginable, the stories heartbreaking.
In the weeks that followed those days, a familiar pattern
took hold. First, we were witnesses to the wonder of
human compassion. Emergency service personnel
risking their own safety and lives to rescue people
trapped in their homes. Neighbors who selflessly
shared essential supplies and empathy with each other.
Congregations near and far rallying to collect food and
baby formula, medicine and generators, drinkable water.
An outpouring of support from around the globe. The
stories lifted our hearts.
But they were not the only responses to this natural
disaster. They never are. In what has become tragically
commonplace and increasingly soon, blame and
recrimination followed. Some of this was directed
toward political leaders and government agencies, but
what turned my stomach were the voices confidently
proclaiming God’s judgment against their chosen evil.
The presumed grounds for this divine wrath spanned
the ideological spectrum, and we’ve seen the same
in recent weeks as wildfires cause immense suffering
and unthinkable loss in southern California. There are
extraordinary, heroic responses of neighbors near and
far. And, there are the smug, self-righteous screeds
certain that the devastation denotes divine displeasure.
From at least the days when televangelists pinned the
blame for Hurricane Katrina on America’s abandoning
of Godly morals, this morning’s story from the Book
of Genesis has been trotted out time and again as a
Biblical basis for connecting these dots. The line is so
clearly and unambiguously drawn that even those of us
who are uncomfortable with the connection may find
ourselves begrudgingly granting it credence.
Let’s take another look. The story of a great and
destructive flood is common, nearly ubiquitous, across
the literature of Ancient Near Eastern cultures. The
distinctiveness of the Biblical version in Genesis should
therefore be instructive to us. There is, as we noted last
week, an unquestioned assumption of God’s providence
and power. That is never on trial here. But it is not the
only marker of divine identity. Marilynne Robinson
suggests that the story of flood and ark, as told in
Genesis, gives us a parable, one that I would suggest is
more true than fact.
God, benevolent and sovereign, creates a world of
beauty and goodness. Humankind is the crown of
this creation. They are given freedom, the choice to
act humanely or to defy God’s design, and therefore
cause themselves and the creation itself great pain.
From Cain’s murder of his brother, we see the human
inclination to violence and destruction. It is only worse
from there. There are weapons, and there is war. There
is poverty and crime. Human creativity and ingenuity as
means to monstrous ends.
And so, we read in the sixth chapter of Genesis, “The
Lord looked over the earth and saw the wickedness
of humankind. God observed the inclination of human
hearts for evil. And the Lord was sorry that he had made
humankind. It grieved him to his heart.”
This is the first instructive distinction in the story
Genesis tells. It finds no parallel across ancient
literature. God is moved by human choice. Moved
not to fury, but to grief. Listen. Our insistence on evil
breaks God’s heart.
The text continues, and God considers how to respond.
“I will blot out from the earth the human beings I have
created…together with animals and creeping things and
birds of the air, for I am sorry that I have made them.’”
Again, God’s discernment here comes not from rage, but
from regret. God briefly considers the path of obliteration,
not out of some avenging anger but in the grip of grief.
And, here, the story might have ended.
Creation reversed. Mischief managed.
Experiment extinguished.
But Noah. They are the most important words for
creation’s threatened future. But Noah. A brake on
the wheels of judgment. “But Noah found favor in the
sight of the Lord.” Please note that we know nothing
of this man at this point in the story, except that he is
a descendent of Adam (but then again, aren’t we all?)
and father of three sons. Now we learn something else.
Noah’s faithfulness is a sign for God that all is not lost.
And so, rather than utter destruction, God chooses
new creation. In the waters of the flood, God begins
again, filling a boat with all that is needed for a second
start. The ark, teeming with life of every kind, is our first
symbol of hope in God’s gracious plan.
Readers of this story might reasonably expect that the
product of this second creation would be better than the
first one. Surely God has learned from the mistakes of
the earlier model. Keep reading. Noah quickly confirms
that his righteousness is episodic at best. His sons will
leave no room for doubt. This crowning creature remains
inclined toward evil. And God insists on the continuation
of human agency, and we insist on using that agency
for destruction and violence. Drunk on our power and
obsessed with more of everything in every way, we
threaten creation’s future by ever more imaginative and
catastrophic means. Once unthinkable capacities for
violence and a faculty for denying the divine image in
those we are determined to despise.
And so, you might say, in this second iteration,
humankind is tragically unchanged in fundamental
ways. But. The shift signified by this story occurs in the
heavenly realm. It takes the shape of a bow pointed in
the direction of the divine. A string wrapped around
God’s finger. Its message a promise. Never again.
No matter how widespread the evil. Never again. No
matter how depraved the deeds. Never again. Never
again will God wipe it all out. Never again. Do I risk
heresy in suggesting it? Well, the text precedes the
creed. God is changed by this story.
And we, too, should remember well. This story would
tell us that we’re on the same boat. One interdependent,
created family. The story would tell us that we will all get
there together, or none of us will get there at all.
What the God of Genesis offers at the close of
this captivating and, yes, troubling story is a new
beginning. God makes a promise. God sets a covenant
to act with restraint and compassion. Now, the human
end of the bargain is vague. What is expected of us?
We who will retain our autonomy, our freedom, our
choice. Well, we have been given a powerful picture
of the threat we pose to ourselves and the world God
created. It could stand as a reminder and a command.
We are capable of immense destruction, yes, but that
is not our primary capacity. We can choose a different
way. We can build. We can care. We can love this earth
and each other.
Many centuries later, writing to the Christians living in
Corinth, the Apostle Paul reflects on a spiritual reality
and a divine mystery. Paul writes: when one member
suffers, all suffer together. I wonder if this is a lesson
we might take from the great flood, that the voices
quick to claim God’s mandate in the wake of crisis
have it all wrong. Natural disasters do not tell us who
to judge. They remind us of our call to love. Friends, it
is the helpers and the healers, not the haters, who see
most clearly the presence of God in a fallen world. Let
us be among them.
Late April. A perfect spring evening. Our son Samuel
and I had gone out for a jog, but we did so without
checking the radar. Before long we found ourselves a
far distance from home as threatening clouds hovered
over our heads. Soon a clap of thunder. Then the skies
opened, and the rain fell. Sam and I took shelter under
some trees, waiting for the storm to pass. And once
it did, we headed back, slower now, toward home.
Sam was a bit ahead of me, and when we came out of
the woods, he shouted back, “Dad! Come quick! You
gotta see this!”
Right in front of us, a perfect full rainbow arced across
the sky. We stood quietly for several moments because
Sam is pretty good at that. Then we took a few pictures
to share with Mom and Ben. Then, just before we
headed home, Sam turned toward me and said, “Dad.
You know what this means, right? I wish everyone in the
world could see it.”
Me too, son.
A picture of God’s promise. A confirmation of our
connectedness. A reminder of our responsibility. Amen.