We must go on

For more than 20 years, I have been fascinated by the account of Noah and the flood of Genesis 6-9. Of course, I heard the story as a child even earlier and appreciated the drama, but my fascination stems from a research paper I wrote in my undergraduate hermeneutics class about the passage. As I researched for that paper, I discovered the debates about the historicity of the flood (i.e., Did it really happen?), the scale of the flood (i.e., Did it cover the whole earth or just a region?), and the viability of the ark’s design (i.e., Would a vessel designed as prescribed in Scripture survive such an event?). I learned far more about the characters involved than was typically included in a children’s story, and I investigated the mechanics of the storm and conditions aboard the boat.

I studied many aspects of the Noahic deluge, but recently, I realized I never really grappled with its aftermath. This realization dawned as a result of two completely unrelated events that just happened to coincide in their timing. First, my father-in-law passed away, and second, the morning after we returned home from the funeral, a line of storms passed through our area and produced a brilliant rainbow in the sky above my home. As I admired the beauty of the rainbow from my driveway and reflected on God’s corresponding promise, I began to understand a bit better how Noah must have felt in the aftermath of the flood, and I began to grapple with the implications for us as we go through our own troubles and grief.

In Genesis 7:11, on the seventeenth day of the second month of Noah’s six hundredth year of life, the watery depths and the floodgates of the skies simultaneously burst open. For the next forty days and forty nights, it rained, and “the water surged and increased greatly on the earth, and the ark floated on the surface of the water” (7:18). Even after the last raindrop pattered upon the roof of the ark, however, the crisis was far from over. Noah and his family surely opened the windows of the ark, but as they gazed out, they quickly realized that “the mountains were covered as the water surged above them more than twenty feet” (7:20). In fact, it was five months before the ark ran aground on what its passengers would later discover was the mountains of Ararat (Genesis 8:3-4). It was another three months before the tops of the mountains were visible (8:5), and four more months before the earth was dry (8:14).

When life is good, we tend to think of crises as momentary things. We might lose our job, but we will find one right away. We may become ill, but it will only last a day or two. However, real crises do not abide by our schedules, and in fact, they can persist for some time. Just as the flood persisted nine months after the rain stopped, the closure of a factory, a cancer diagnosis, or any number of other crises we can face may last for some time.

Take, for example, the case of my father-in-law. When he entered the hospital for a routine procedure, everyone expected him to be discharged the next day. Even when it was decided he needed a bypass instead of a couple of stents, it was expected he would be released in a few days. This, however, was just the beginning of an ordeal that would last nearly eight weeks. Indeed, it may be a long time before hope finally dawns and we at last see the rainbow.

Even so, by Genesis 8:15, God invited Noah and his family to leave the ark because the storm had passed and the flood had subsided. The crisis was over, and similarly, every crisis that we face will eventually, inevitably come to an end. This is undeniably good news. As dark as it is, there is light at the end of the tunnel.

Please do not misunderstand. I am not naive enough to believe that every crisis ends as we wish it would. We would have sunshine and lollipops all the time, but I burn easily and too many lollipops rot your teeth. Too many people interpret the promise of Romans 8:28 to mean that God will work all things together for the earthly good of those who love him. Yet, the man who wrote those words, St. Paul, was martyred for his faith, and we can reconcile the promise and the reality only when we realize that earthly death is not the end, and the promise was given in the infinitely broader scope of eternity. That is, God will work all things together for the eternal good of those who love him. Thus, the point is not that every crisis will end well or as we wish it would, but merely that every crisis will eventually end.

Such was the case for my father-in-law. After nearly eight weeks in two different hospitals, he passed away. As Noah built an altar in Genesis 8:20, our family organized and held a celebration of life, and the crisis was over. Yet, as I walked my wife to her car two days later, the devastation was both real and massive. We both felt it. Our lives will never be the same, and the ominous storm clouds billowing to the west that morning seemed to punctuate that truth.

Then I saw it: a brilliant rainbow ascending the heavens in the west, and as I looked up that morning, I could not help but think that what we were feeling must have been similar to what Noah felt at the close of Genesis 8. The crisis was passed and the altar built, but how would he ever piece his family’s life back together?

Noah did not have the answer to that question, but he did have God’s promise. As the rainbow arched over the ruined earth, God said, “Never again will every creature be wiped out by floodwaters; there will never again be a flood to destroy the earth” (Genesis 9:11). There would be no encore of the flood. In fact, God went a step farther and promised to provide for Noah’s needs: “Every creature that lives and moves will be food for you; as I gave the green plants, I have given you everything” (Genesis 9:2-3). 

That is not to say it would be easy. Grasses and wildflowers may have sprouted by the time Noah and his family disembarked, but they would have to start from scratch to cultivate everything. God just expanded their diet to include meat, but the animal population was precariously small. There were many lean days, and much hard work, ahead, but the promise was given.

And that promise was for Noah and “for all future generations.” Do not miss the implicit promise: there would be future generations. With these four words, God invited them to dream of houses filled with the smells of good food. He urged them to imagine the sound of laughing children. He exhorted them to look ahead to the day when God’s promise was fulfilled. In other words, even in the midst of massive desolation, Noah and his family were called to look ahead to a better, brighter future. 

As I beheld that rainbow, I was reminded of these two truths. First, God’s promise still stands. Things may not be easy, but he is not yet done with me. And second, with that promise in hand, it is time for us to look ahead. Things may not be better tomorrow or even the next day, but they will be better. And because of that reality, we can – we must – go on.