“Never Again”
Genesis 9:1-3, 8-17
Allen Huff
Jonesborough Presbyterian Church
7/23/17
In July
of 1984, while working as a summer youth director in N. Augusta, SC, I took a
small group of kids on a mission trip to Bennettsville, SC, a rural community
that had been devastated by tornadoes that spring. We went to offer such help
as we could, and our experience gave us new respect for nature’s power to
rearrange people’s surroundings and priorities. In the midst of it all, one
image stood out.
While
ripping apart a shopping center, the largest tornado grabbed a quarter-ton
I-beam and hurled it through the air for about a mile. It landed in someone’s front
yard, about 30 feet from the front steps. It stuck in the ground. Angled back
toward the house, it looked like an arrow that had missed its mark. Of that 18-foot
beam, about half remained above ground. The family left it there, and by the
road they placed a granite marker engraved with the date of the storm and the
words In God we Trust.
After
the trip, I was in the church kitchen one afternoon telling the cleaning lady
about our trip. Kind-hearted and soft-spoken, the woman listened intently
behind a tight-lipped smile that seemed to acknowledge the pain, yet without
surprise.
“You
know,” she said putting a finger to her cheek, “You hear about things like that
all the time, tornadoes, hurricanes, floods, and people getting hurt and
killed. And I really think that those things are the good Lord trying to tell
us something.”
She was
a wonderful lady, and I enjoyed her company. But she may have gotten her theology
from TV preachers.
Many televangelists
flog their listeners with dispensationalism, a theology that divides human
history into quantifiable eras, or “dispensations” of divine revelation. Believing
that global death and destruction must herald the second coming, dispensationalists
crave the fall of civilization. Convinced that all suffering, regardless of the
cause, is God’s judgment, they grant their toxic blessings to religious and
political leaders who have the power to call up fresh floods of violence and to
drown the world with division and fear. Only then, they say, will Jesus return.
Sure,
breaking certain laws can cause suffering. Defy the law of gravity and one
discovers just how true the old saying is: It’s
not the fall that kills you. It’s the sudden stop. Of particular concern to
me is the fact that, for years we’ve been reaping the bitter fruits of poor
stewardship of the earth, which, according to both creation stories, is the original human vocation. That’s
simple cause and effect, and that’s on humankind not God. Until we recognize
the natural connection between our sinful
lust for excess and convenience on the one hand and environmental degradation
on the other, the waters will keep rising. And if we don’t make that turn, how will future generations sustain
themselves?
Having said that, attaching
a sin, or even a sinner, to every storm and illness is more than self-serving theology.
It’s idolatry. It makes judgments for God.
The story of the Great
Flood becomes helpful when we remember that it has less to do with our
sinfulness than it does with God’s grace. A
little background: The concept for the biblical story was sponged from one
chapter in the ancient Epic of Gilgamesh.
The book of Genesis reached its current form, more or less, during the time of
the Babylonian Exile. It became a staple of preaching and worship for a vanquished
people who were being told that their crisis was their own fault. The flood narrative
helped to restore Israel’s identity and vision. ‘Exile is not the judgment of an
angry God,’ says the story. ‘It’s a symptom of the world’s lust for power and
excess, for wealth and convenience. And God, who is faithful, loving, and just,
is with us, now and always.’
Through
Isaiah, God makes this explicit: “[To me] this is like the days of Noah,” says
God, “just as I swore that the waters of Noah would never again go over the
earth, so I have sworn that I will not be angry with you and will not rebuke
you. For the mountains may depart and the hills be removed, but my steadfast
love shall not depart from you, and my covenant of peace shall not be removed…”
(Is. 54:9-10)
The Word of the Lord. Thanks be to God.
While the
story of the flood begins with God attempting to blot out evil by blotting out
humankind, it also shows God discovering the futility of such efforts. “The
inclination of the human heart is evil from youth,” says God. This lament
acknowledges that neither floods, nor tornadoes, nor plagues upon our houses
will turn us around; and they certainly won’t redeem us. So, God makes a new
covenant and promises that never again
will God use “grapes of wrath” to bring about transformation.
Why won’t
we learn the same thing? All the wars and rumors of wars on this planet, and
all the glorification of them reveal that humankind still trusts violence more
than we trust God’s covenants of grace. That misplaced trust makes
dispensationalism very lucrative business. Its apostles terrify their way deep
into people’s minds and pockets.
By contrast, the flood
story proclaims that God initiates a covenant with us and remains faithful to
it, even when we don’t. Rather than trying to force our hand through
catastrophe, Yahweh, who is “slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love,” (Ex. 36:4)
commits to shepherding us patiently toward faithfulness. Isn’t that the God
revealed in Jesus?
In a brief article entitled
“Reinhold Niebuhr on Moral Motivation,” L.L. Wilmoth says, “the highest moral
and spiritual achievements depend not upon a push but…a pull. People must be
charmed into righteousness. The language of aspiration rather than that of criticism
and command is the proper…language” for proclamation.1
The story
of the flood begins with an anthropomorphic God feeling “sorry” for having
created humankind (Gen. 6:6), and seeking to correct the creation through
“criticism and command.” After the flood, God realizes that punitive violence
never produces constructive change. The story ends with God deciding to pull humanity forward, to charm us into aspiring toward things like righteousness, faithful stewardship,
and grateful, generous living. The language becomes gracious and covenantal rather
than resentful and coercive.
“Never
again,” says God. “Never again shall all flesh be cut off by the waters of a
flood.”
This
is more than some silver lining. This is God entering the creation’s relentless
suffering with healing love and redeeming purpose.
God
commits to this new covenant with a sign as simple and as elegant as a wedding
band – the rainbow. Think about that: Rainbows require both bright sunlight and
significant moisture. The sign of God’s covenant arcs across the heavens only when
there’s obvious tension between fair skies and foul.
This
same tension makes the last first and the first last.
It
makes losing one’s life the very way to discover one’s true life.
It’s
makes poverty, grief, hunger, and persecution signs of “blessedness.”
This
same tension makes shepherds kings and Friday “Good.”
Because
of this tense yet gracious paradox, God’s promise of “never again” floods the
earth with hope. And we hear it echoing in Jesus’ “final” words to his
disciples: “And remember,” he says, “I am with you always, until the end of the
age.” (Mt. 28:20b)
1https://externalword.wordpress.com/2017/03/19/reinhold-niebuhr-on-moral-motivation/
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