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.