Genesis 9: Never Again

Genesis 9. I was going to include this in the last post, but this (like everything else) is one of my favourite parts of the Bible. I grew up with the story of Noah and with God's promise to Noah, but the story was taught to me with one small but major difference in comparison to what I read in the story now.

As a child, I remember learning about how evil and wicked humanity had become and how angry God was. Noah sure was lucky God was able to cool down enough to save Noah and his family, even though God was still very angry at everyone else. After the flood, God promised Noah, almost grudgingly, not to ever flood the whole earth again. Mostly because it just didn't work out, not because God was sorry people died. For all the reassurances that this God was a loving God, this God sounded pretty unstable and wrathful.

When I reread the Bible for Lent, I was surprised, again and again, to find that the God in the Bible wasn't actually such a horrible being. In fact, Noah's ark quickly became one of my absolute favourites as an example of the loving God about whose rumoured existence I had so much doubt. Instead of the "Well, now you realised how pissed off I was; hope you finally learned your lesson!" sort of speech from God to Noah after the flood, God (I was shocked to read) starts off by blessing Noah and his family.

"I give you everything," says God. "Only you shall not eat flesh with its life, that is, its blood." (9:3-4) Instead of scolding or warnings, God gives all of creation to Noah and his family, reminding them only to respect the sanctity of all life. It might seem hypocritical, but God follows up with a promise to Noah: "Never again shall all flesh be cut off by the waters of a flood, and never again shall there be a flood to destroy the earth." (9:11) It's like God's repentance almost. Never again, God says. Enough with destruction; even the lives of so-called "sinners" are sacred.

But my absolute favourite part of the story is the rainbow: "'When the bow is in the clouds, I will look upon it and remember the everlasting covenant between God and every living creature of all flesh that is upon the earth.'" (9:16) Until rereading the story last Lent, I had never known that the rainbow was a symbolic reminder to God, not us. I always thought it was a reminder that we had done wrong, but God forgave us, that God was overwhelmingly forgiving. But that's not how (at least in the English translations) it's written. It is a reminder that God had "done wrong," and that God was truly and humbly sorry.

God can really seem like a jerk sometimes. Things don't always seem fair. A friend commits suicide, and you question how God could possibly let such a terrible thing happen to such a good person, how God failed to protect them from the struggles they faced, why God burdened them with more than they could bear. If God is so perfect, so infallible, so all-knowing and all-powerful, did God just not care? Or was it for some stupid "greater purpose" that God decided to throw away a life just like that?

When I see rainbows, I think of Dumbledore, whose obsession with working for the "greater good," no matter how many lives it cost to obtain it, cost him the life of his sister. "Where your treasure is, your heart will be also," he has engraved on her tombstone. It is a quote from Matthew 6:21.

I can't tell you whether God makes mistakes or not—that's a bigger discussion than this story really is about—but I can tell you that it very often feels like God has made a mistake. I get angry with God and demand an apology and an explanation. Suffering is incomprehensible.

But rather than tell me it is fair, I deserved it, or I'm too stupid to understand, God says sorry and asks me for forgiveness. God says, "Never again," and puts a rainbow in the sky to remind Godself of the promise made. "I give you everything," only learn from my mistakes, says God. Respect all life as holy.

And just as God humbly asks our forgiveness, just as we must forgive God, so to must we ask each other forgiveness and forgive each other. Never again, we must say, even though we know we are imperfect and will forget. The story of Noah's ark is about forgiveness.

Resentment

I was beginning to resent my job. I mean, I love my job. I work at a small, family-owned restaurant with wonderful people. The customers are nice. I get food. I get tips. When I screw something up (which I did recently), my managers are gracious and patient, happy to help me out rather than just scold me for being imperfect.

But resentment began to creep in as my work schedule meant I would not be able to participate in my favourite thing, the thing which got me through the hard parts of last school year: choir.

I tried to accept that this year would just be different. I tried imagining myself sitting in the pews each Sunday, part of the congregation. I thought of the freedom that would come with not needing to go to rehearsals each week and not needing to be at church for five hours straight on the Sundays my choir (there are two, and we switch off each Sunday) would be singing.

Like Taylor Swift said though, "It turns out freedom ain't nothing but missing you." I couldn't, try as I might, avoid feeling resentful toward my job for preventing me from singing. I realised I would be less motivated to go to church; depression would be given more chance to creep in without the weekly choral defense.

Quitting my job, however, is not really an option. While technically, yes, I could walk out whenever I felt like it, and no one could stop me, I need the money, the work experience, and the world outside of school, church, and family. And I promised my dad.

As we've struggled to have a good relationship through my "I'm an adult now; I don't need you; I know everything" phase through which most new adults seem to go, breaking my promise and flat-out defying what he asks of me will not make me happier at all. Fighting with him has worn me out enough as is, and I know, despite my 19-year-old arrogance, that he has a point in pushing me to have this job, rather than just earn money through odd jobs.

But giving up choir for work will lead only to me resenting not only my job but my dad too. I cannot, I realised, go to work resentful. Only two options exist: get rid of the resentment or get rid of the job. Getting rid of the job is simply not an option right now, so, somehow, I had to address the resentment and find a solution with which I could be happy.

The solution, which I came across last night, is so simple it hurts. It should not have taken me a month of growing, festering resentment to find such a simple solution: tell my boss I just can't work Wednesdays nights, the night my choir rehearses, once September starts. If I can't pick up a different shift at that job, I can handle one less shift for a few weeks while I search for a second job. Funny thing about having a job, it somehow makes people more willing to hire you (which is maddening when you don't have a job).

The world, miraculously, is not over. I can work and still do what is most important to me. Even if I've had to give up some things I really did not want to, as long as I still have my choir, I think I'm okay with giving some things up.

Housing the Hundred Thousand

This past week, my alarm was set for 2 o'clock in the morning each day. Dark blankets were draped over my windows to block out light so that I might nap during daylight hours. When my alarm went off, I quickly dragged myself out of bed, groggily attended to emails while preparing to leave, and then found myself, miraculously, at "headquarters" by 3.45AM, grabbing a quick bite of particularly flavourless fruit and planning our route for the morning with my teammates before beginning the morning's work.

The work, however, was worth being up before dawn: we were surveying the homeless in our community in order to find the most vulnerable and begin the process of getting them off the streets and connected with the already-existing resources they need. We were taking part in The 100,000 Homes Campaign, a nationwide campaign which "brings together change agents from across the country to find and house 100,000 of the country’s most vulnerable and long-term homeless individuals and families over the next three years." (from their home page)

The zone my team was assigned to cover was one of the least populated areas. While I was disappointed to not have the profoundly moving conversations friends from other teams shared each morning when we all returned to headquarters, one of my teammates kept reminding us that it was a good thing that we weren't tripping over the homeless with every step: it means the community's current programs are already making an impact.

Every morning, however, was filled with heart-breaking stories. The youngest person surveyed was 19-years-old—my age! Of the 131 people surveyed during "Registry Week," 58 had a "high mortality risk." In other words, these are the people the community is going to push to get into housing and medical care right away. The city committed to housing the first 20 right away, and a total of 40 minimum by 31 July 2013, the "deadline" for the 100,000 Homes Campaign. One person has already been housed.

Homelessness, admittedly, was never my "thing" about which to be crazy. It seemed to me just a tragic fact of life: homeless people will always exist. Not only were the homeless "those people" to me, but they were those people whose problems were beyond my ability to help. Worse than blinding myself, I fully accepted that they were there and suffering but decided they just simply weren't worth my time to help. "That's not my ministry."

There was a contagious energy at headquarters each day. I had walked in for the first time Sunday afternoon, vaguely skeptical that much could be done or that this effort would be all that different from any other effort by guilty, privileged, white people trying to act charitable, but I walked out Friday feeling like something was really happening. One person already housed, and all those people involved ready to keep on working to really make something happen. It was like fire, spreading through headquarters and lighting every single person with the drive to make change. 

The world has been looking dismal lately. It seems no one is willing to do the frightening work of making the change we so badly need. Our political system is a mess, the economy feels like it might just completely vanish at any moment, and natural disasters seem to be becoming more and more frequent and destructive each day. It's been hard to look at the world and feel like there's any hope.

But there was hope in that room. Not just vague hope or some far-off, sentimental nonsense about "one day," but a very concrete and determined hope that something was happening, right here, right now, and we were going to be the agents of that change. There was contagious, almost desperate energy in that room of catalysts, not mere spectators. We didn't just talk to the homeless or count them; what we were really doing at 4AM was taking the first crucial step in the path to housing: determining the needs of the people. With one person already housed within mere days, I know something is actually happening, and I know I am a part of that. 

I am a part of the miracle of the housing of the hundred thousand.

Genesis 5-8: Come out of the Ark

(Technically, this post also covers the end of Genesis 4, which was left out in the last post.)

Genesis 4:16-26 is the first of what becomes a trend in the Bible to list off detailed genealogies (though usually only sons, thanks to patriarchy). Just wait until we get to Chronicles! Actually, in order to give Noah the proper attention he deserves, I will. As tedious as the genealogies dispersed throughout the Bible may be, I still appreciate them, and I'll explain why when we get to Chronicles.

Genesis 5 starts by reiterating the Genesis 1 concept that Adam, the first human, was created "in the likeness of God," and then extends the idea to human reproduction, as Seth, Adam's new son, is born "in his [Adam's] own likeness, after his image." (5:3) While this could easily lead to thoughts like "descended from the gods," divine right, or many other potentially arrogant ideas, that's not how I read the Bible, nor does the Bible even say that. The Bible, as usual, just isn't an installation manual for your new Christianity software, sorry. Try aisle 9.

What strikes me about this particular verse is the context: this is after the so-called "fall" of humanity, and yet Adam is still described as being made in the likeness of God and, what's more, his son Seth is in Adam's likeness. The divinity is still there; God didn't take it away. For some reason, we can still say, "God dwells in you." In light of Cain's murder of his brother Abel, thanks to this "fall" and the presence of "sin," humanity is still "good," still God's creation.

After more genealogies, tracing from Adam to Noah over many generations (and full of rather long life spans! but more on that when we reach Chronicles), Genesis 6 opens with the heading "The Flood" in my Bible, which, of course, I crossed out and replaced with, "Australia!" in light of the massive floods there earlier this year. I don't know or care if the whole earth was flooded, or even if it rained it all, actually, because the Bible is not a history textbook either. Those are in aisle 3.

The story of The Flood goes a little something like this: people were living lives, the earth was getting populated, and, apparently, humanity had turned to evil. God was pretty upset. Except there was this guy, Noah, who was a pretty all right dude, and God decided that, while God definitely was going to wipe out all the horrible, violent people on the earth with a great flood, Noah ought to build an ark to save himself, his family, and biodiversity. (Dear self-professed "Bible thumpers," please reread Genesis 6: God is very keen on saving all of the animals from extinction. Maybe you should be too.)

The story details the very specific instructions God apparently gave Noah for building this ark, interspersed with things like, "Noah did everything just as God commanded him." (6:22) Genesis 7 is the flood itself, describing with narrative detail the tragic destruction of the Earth. What a scary time to be alive; sometimes, I wonder if I, like Noah, am about to witness the destruction of all that I know. Words like "global warming" and "climate crisis" and "deforestation" are scary; what will become of our earthen home?

Yet Noah follows God. The waters recede, and dry land appears again. (Genesis 8) "Come out of the ark," God says. (7:16, NIV) "As long as the earth endures, seedtime and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night will never cease." (7:22)

Come out, God says. There is evil, yet there is also good. Even when all of humanity, it seemed, had turned to evil and violence, one good man, Noah, made a difference and saved not only his family, but all of the creatures of the earth from great calamity and natural disaster. And after the rains, after the storms and the floods, the waters recede, and dry land does appear once again.

Noah lived in a frightening time, no doubt. Noah probably looked at "Congress" and thought it looked like a bunch of toddlers throwing tantrums and starting senseless wars, but Noah persevered. Noah had faith and hope and trusted God, trusted the sort of thing that seems crazy to trust, and Noah survived. It doesn't take a literal destruction of the entire earth for this story to have meaning to those of us who fear the flood, who fear the destruction of our world, because it is a story of faith leading one man to do something great, something heroic, and it is the promise that earth, that life itself, will endure no matter what.

Come out, God says. Out of fear, out of despair, out of darkness. Hope! God says. Have faith! Believe that not all is lost, that the storms will end and rainbows will appear. Whatever the storm, no matter how flooded the world around you, the waters will recede, and dry land will appear once again. That is God's promise.

(Amen!)

Genesis 4: Every Man for Himself?

Toto, I don't think we're in Eden anymore!

Genesis 4, as you may or may not know, is the story of Cain and Abel, another familiar story. Brothers Cain and Abel bring their offerings to God—Cain, the older of the brothers, brings "an offering of the fruit of the ground" (4:3) and Abel brings "of the firstlings of his flock and of their fat portions"—and God, much to Cain's unhappiness, likes Abel's offering but not Cain's. So Cain kills Abel.

There is much that can be debated in this chapter, ranging from God's favourite foods to the importance of family to God's justice to sin and foolishness to—well, you get the point. It is a story with which we are (almost) all at least somewhat familiar, and about which we all seem to have opinions. In these verses is the first real conflict of the good and evil within human nature, the first time we see the results of our new awareness of both good and evil, of our free will.

"If you do well, will you not be accepted? And if you do not do well, sin is couching at the door; its desire is for you, but you must master it," says God. (4:7) We have a choice, God tells us; we always have a choice. The freedom to choose well, to do what is good, is always ours, and yet that freedom, that knowledge of good, lies in tension with sin always crouching at our doors. Knowing goodness means knowing evil. We must be masters of ourselves.

Cain falls prey to sin; he kills his own brother. "Am I my brother's keeper?" he famously says. (4:9) Much less famously, yet just as profoundly, God says, "The voice of your brother's blood is crying to me from the ground." (4:10) Cain, in defense of his jealous hate, says it's "every man for himself"; he is not responsible for his brother. Yet he is wrong.

"The voice of your brother's blood is crying to me from the ground." The very ground, the dirt, the soil itself, cries for justice, cries out against Cain's heartless action. Abel is dead, and yet the world itself speaks, gives voice to his spilled blood. The story of Cain and Abel is, to me, not a warning against a fickle God with particular dietary tastes, but a reminder of how deeply connected we all are to each other and to the earth.

And the justice administered in this story is not "an eye for an eye": Cain cries out, "I shall be a fugitive and a wanderer on the earth, and whoever finds me will slay me," (4:14) yet God says no. "'Not so! If any one slays Cain, vengeance shall be taken on him sevenfold.' And the LORD put a mark on Cain, lest any who came upon him should kill him." (4:15) Rather than add to the bloodshed, God leaves Cain to suffer the guilt, to experience, as Dumbledore might say, "a fate worse than death": he is alone, disconnected, outcast.

Poor Cain. The story of Cain and Abel serves as an example of what we are really choosing when we choose hate, jealousy, and evil. Cain, led by the deceit of sin, chooses to suffer a fate much worse than death. The story says much more about us and sin than it does about whether God likes her steaks rare or well-done; it tells us that sin latches onto our weaknesses, our insecurities, and leads us to harm and to hate. God tells us we must choose, but we really can choose. It is both our freedom and our burden. Genesis 4 asks us to choose love, not hate, to be our brother's keeper, not murderer.