Pastor Mark

The Primeval Mythology of Genesis - The Flood

Genesis 9:8-17

Then God said to Noah and to his sons with him, ‘As for me, I am establishing my covenant with you and your descendants after you, and with every living creature that is with you, the birds, the domestic animals, and every animal of the earth with you, as many as came out of the ark. I establish my covenant with you, that 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.’ God said, ‘This is the sign of the covenant that I make between me and you and every living creature that is with you, for all future generations: I have set my bow in the clouds, and it shall be a sign of the covenant between me and the earth. When I bring clouds over the earth and the bow is seen in the clouds, I will remember my covenant that is between me and you and every living creature of all flesh; and the waters shall never again become a flood to destroy all flesh. When the bow is in the clouds, I will see it and remember the everlasting covenant between God and every living creature of all flesh that is on the earth.’ God said to Noah, ‘This is the sign of the covenant that I have established between me and all flesh that is on the earth.’


I was worried I’d mess up and say, “The Gospel of the Lord,” when I got done reading that bit from Genesis. I was worried, because that’s just what I’m used to saying after reading whatever text it is I’ll be preaching on – which is more often than not, something from one of the actual Gospels in scripture. And, even though this bit from Genesis, in the Hebrew scriptures, can’t technically be called “the Gospel,” it – as much as anything else in the Hebrew scriptures – reads, sounds, and feels like Gospel good news to me.

I mean, it has all the things, right? There’s the declaration of a covenant, for all of creation. There’s the promise of mercy, love, hope, and redemption. And there’s a visible, almost tangible, sign of all of that – not a cross, or an empty tomb, but that bow in the clouds. It seems so very much like the Gospel, if you ask me.

It also seems/feels/sounds like “the Gospel” because it’s so BIG, so cosmic in scope, which is the way the “primeval mythology” we’ve been talking about is supposed to work. It addresses the big things … the big picture … in a big way. And you know it’s big when the idea of something like a great flood shows up in several other world religions, just like it does in our own.

- The most familiar flood narrative – and the one very close to ours in terms of culture and content – is from the Epic of Gilgamesh, where a hero is warned by a god to build a boat in order to survive the coming rains.

- Hindus have a flood story, too, where the fishy incarnation of Vishnu warns the first human about a coming flood and instructs him to build a boat.

- The Greeks have Zeus send a flood where Deucalion and Pyrrha build a boat, survive, and repopulate the earth by throwing stones behind them.

- And there are other flood narratives, too, from the Incas, the Aztecs, the Chinese, Aboriginals, and more.

Smarter people than me use the seemingly universal nature of and affinity for such stories as evidence that there really was some sort of global deluge and flood that people of all stripes were trying to make sense of and ascribe meaning to. Other smarter people than me wonder if these stories are evidence of peoples and cultures simply trying to make sense of more localized natural disasters, torrential rains, and terrible floods when they hit – maybe like the tragedy we all watched play out in Texas a couple weeks ago; or the ones that have also threatened and taken lives in New York, Virginia, Washington, and South Korea, lately, too.

Whatever the case – cosmic or close to home – it’s helpful for me to remind myself that our flood story isn’t necessarily about the water, the rain, or the flood. That it’s not so much about the length of days, the size of the boat, or the number of which kinds of beasts were on board with Noah and his family. (The guys at the Cross of Grace Brew Club yesterday wanted to be sure I explained how dinosaurs fit onto the ark, why God bothered to save the mosquitos, and something about pigs and bacon, too.) Someone at the “Ark Encounter”– that Noah’s Ark museum in northern Kentucky? – will pretend to give you an answer to those questions, but I’m suspicious of their certainty and I’m certainly not willing to pay them for it.

Which is to say – again and again and again – the capital-T-TRUTH in these origin stories of our faith isn’t found by way of a literal reading of scripture. That is simply not their intention. And again, today’s story is not about the details of the flood, the length of days, the size of the boat, or the number of birds, beasts, or brothers on Noah’s boat. The Truth we’re meant to find in all of that is about the nature of the God we’re invited to wonder about – and to encounter – thanks to the telling of this ancient tale.

This is a God who calls righteous people to do hard things; impossible things; unreasonably faithful, fearless things for the greater good.

This is a God who calls people to respect, care for, and tend to the natural, created world and to humbly revere nature’s capacity for beauty and brutality.

This is a God who never promises that life will be easy – or without its suffering and struggle and sacrifice. This is true for the sinful and for the righteous. (Just because Noah was chosen and survived, he lost plenty along the way, for sure.)

And this is a God who promises that the world’s destruction – if or when or should it ever happen again – won’t be God’s doing; which is our call to faith, hope, and love, in action, if you ask me.

To me, that means, if there’s to be another flood … or a fire … or a famine – on a cosmic scale or somewhere close to home – where so many lives are lost, it won’t be God’s fault. So maybe that’s a very practical, timely warning to pay attention to global warming. Maybe that’s our invitation to wonder about who’s at risk or in harm’s way – from floods or fires or famines or whatever. And maybe that’s our call to look out for and protect our neighbor – and the world around us – rather than to build a boat with only enough room to save ourselves. But I digress…

There’s a recent trend on social media where parents of my generation ask their children or grandchildren to complete what have been identified as “toxic parenting phrases” that many of us heard often when we were growing up. “Toxic parenting phrases” that, in theory, parents have learned not to use as frequently – if at all – anymore, like they used to.

Phrases like “Do as I say, not as I do.”

Or, “Children should be seen and not heard.”

Or, “If you don’t stop crying I’ll give you something to cry about.

The point of the exercise is to show how raising kids WITHOUT such negative, “toxic” phrases has changed and is, presumably better, more kind, loving, encouraging, emotionally intelligent, and psychologically healthy.

And this seems obvious – and evident – once you hear children from more recent generations who’ve never heard those “toxic phrases” try to guess at filling in the blanks like many of you all just did so capably.

For example, instead of “Children should be seen and not heard,” one young toddler said, “Children should be seen … at school.”

Instead of “If you don’t stop crying, I’ll give you something to cry about,” other kids said, “If you don’t stop crying, I’ll give you … a hug … or I’ll give you something to eat.” Again, a much more emotionally healthy, loving, hopeful way to live as a young child in the world, don’t you think?

And my favorite one of these – and perhaps the most toxic of them all – is that oldie but goody, “I brought you into this world and I can take you out of it.”

How terrible is that if a kid hears if often enough and starts to believe it?!? And we can pretend it’s a joke … that it’s funny, perhaps … that we or our parents never really meant to follow through on that threat. But that just isn’t the case with the popular theology of the God so many have been raised to learn about and to believe in from Genesis.

See, too much of the time, that’s all and only what we’ve done with the story of Noah, the Ark, and the Flood.

Because as an origin story of our faith … as part of this “primeval mythology” we’ve been talking about … the other thing this story has in common with other world religions is that their flood stories are often very deliberately connected with the creation stories, too. Just like ours, they first tell of a God who has the power of creation and the power of judgment, punishment, and destruction, too.

In other words, the story they tell is nothing more and nothing less than: “God brought us into this world and God can take us out of it.”

So what makes Noah’s story – our story – so different for us, is that God promises that that won’t happen ever again. There’s a reminder and a rainbow, remember … there is a covenant and a promise … there is Gospel good news here for all people; for every living creature; for all flesh.

And this good news should call us to live differently because of it.

Because, on the other side of the flood – on the other side of the cross and the empty tomb of Jesus, too – the waters of the flood become waters of baptism; they become waters of forgiveness, redemption, love, hope, and new life.

So, as we share the blessing of that water with Scout Ehle today (and every time we have the chance to share, celebrate, and remember the sacrament) – as we celebrate with his dads and his family – as we promise to pray for, support, and live together with him in this covenant that belongs to us all – I hope that it’s a God of grace and good news we’re living for, responding to, and sharing – with Scout, with each other, and with the whole wide world – every chance we get.

Amen

The Primeval Mythology of Genesis - Creation

John 19:38-42

After these things, Joseph of Arimathea, a follower of Jesus, though a secret one because of his fear of the Jews, came to Pilate and asked if he could take away the body of Jesus. Pilate gave him permission; so he came to remove his body. Nicodemus, who at first had come to Jesus by night also came, bringing with him a mixture of myrrh and aloes weighing about one hundred pounds. They took the body, wrapping it in the spices and linens, according to the Jewish burial customs. Now, there was a garden in the place where Jesus had been crucified and in the garden there was a new tomb in which no one had ever been [buried.] So, because it was the Jewish Day of Preparation, and because the tomb was nearby, they laid the body of Jesus there.


“The Primeval Mythology of Genesis: Creation”

I’ve already heard some curiosity – maybe mixed with some cynical suspicion – about the title of this new sermon series: “The Primeval Mythology of Genesis.” Curiosity and suspicion aren’t terrible things and I think it’s the word “mythology” that stirs the pot for some people, which was kind of our goal. Part of the point with this next round of sermons is to remind ourselves and each other that we’re called to read the Bible LITERATELY, not LITERALLY, and to see that its message and good news – its grace, hope, and promise – go deeper and wider when we do.

So first, things, first … which is what “primeval” means, sort of … first things; of the earliest ages; the beginning of the beginning, you might say. The first eleven chapters of the Bible’s first book are where we will spend our time the next few weeks. The good stuff before the good stuff. The stage-setting. The foundation. The genesis, is where we begin.

And the word “mythology” rightly ruffles feathers if we are inclined to equate the foundational narrative of our faith story with the fables, fairy tales, and fictional “myths” of, say, the Greek gods (Zeus, Poseidon, Aphrodite, and the like); or Aesop’s fables; or the tall tales of the wonderful world of Walt Disney. But that’s not what we’re up to.

“Myth” and “mythology” can mean something more, something deeper from a theological perspective, which is what we plan to wrestle with. I would contend that, when we limit stories like creation, where we are beginning this morning, to all and only what we can glean from it LITERALLY, that that’s precisely how and when we reduce it to something like a mere fable, a fairy tale, a fictional “myth,” rather than when we wonder about the holy, sacred, profound Truths that this story – and the others like it in Scripture – hold for our life and faith in this world.

And where better to start than at the very beginning – “it’s a very good place to start” – in the beginning, with the fact that, if we’re honest, the two very different versions of creation that we just heard – from Chapters 1 and 2 of the same book – make it really hard to take either of them LITERALLY?

I mean, those are two very different versions of the same story, right? (Many Bibles, like the ones we read from each Sunday, say it plainly. Chapter 2 is “another story of creation.”) The story in Chapter 1 tells of the day-by-day, very long work-week of the Almighty, who creates first this, and then that, with a break and no small measure of satisfaction between each.

“…and God saw that it was good…” “…and God saw that it was good…” “…and God saw that it was good…”

“…and there was evening and there was morning, the first day…” “…and there was evening and there was morning, the third day…” “…and there was evening and there was morning, the fifth day…”

But Chapter 2 goes down altogether differently. In that version of creation, God – like some sort of holy potter, or divine craftsman, or sacred sculptor – makes a man from the dust, then plants a garden and puts him to work, then decides he could use a companion and some help, so then creates all the rest, and a woman, to boot.

In version #2, we don’t know which came first or next, on which day. And none of that matters.

What matters is that God, something Divine, did something divine – created the heavens, the earth, and all that is in them. What matters is that it was and is good. What matters is that we are part of that goodness – you and I – and all people – created good, by God; and created for good, for God’s sake.

What matters, if you ask me, is that we stop reducing the Bible to some sort of prehistoric science book – the authors of which never could have known a thing about bunker-busting missiles or atomic bombs; about Gaza or the West Bank, as we know of them today; about electric cars, school shootings, cancer, chemo-therapy, Medicaid or social media. And that’s okay. These stories have something to say to all of that – and to all of us – nonetheless.

Because what the creation stories tells us – among so many other things – is that we are made in the image of the divine, even though we do so much to make that hard to believe. And we are made in the image of the divine, not just because we have heads, shoulders, knees, or toes…

…but we are made in the image of the Divine because we are made for community, like God; with the power to create and care about and have compassion, like God; that we have the capacity to do justice, like God; make sacrifices, like God; be generous, like God; forgive, like God; and love one another, like God.

Oh, and this is important: the stories of creation make it very clear that none of us IS God and that we shouldn’t try to be – which Pastor Cogan will get to next week, I believe.

Instead, for now, let’s let the stories of creation inspire within us what, I believe they were meant to inspire and to teach and to proclaim all along: a sense of reverence and awe about what God can do; a posture of humility and gratitude for our part in the grand scheme of things; and a response from each of us – and all of us together – that is generous, careful, and full of service that acknowledges our connection to all people and to the grand scheme of things.

Because today’s good news includes the notion that we are created “just a little lower than the angels” – as the Psalmist puts it – and that God calls us to live differently because of that Truth. God invites us to tend to and care for what belongs to God – the earth and all that is in it. God calls us to replenish what we use up – from the earth and from each other, too; to give more than we take, save, and keep for ourselves.

So, what if these primeval creation stories are nothing more – and certainly nothing less – than prehistoric best efforts at describing something that cannot be described; that is too big for words; that are meant to love us and leave us in awe and wonder for what God has done for us – and hopes to do through us – for the sake of the world where we live?

What if these primeval creation stories are nothing more – and certainly nothing less – than poetic prose from a prehistoric Mary Oliver, who could marvel at creation as well as anyone, as far as I’m concerned? Her poem Wild Geese, goes like this:

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

What if the point of the creation stories is simply, and profoundly, to announce your place – and mine – in the family of things?

And what if these primeval creation stories are nothing more – and certainly nothing less – than like clever song lyrics from a pre-historic John Prine, encouraging you, with a wink and smile to…

“Blow up your TV, throw away your paper
Go to the country, build you a home
Plant a little garden, eat a lot of peaches
Try and find Jesus on your own.”

What if these primeval creation stories are nothing more – and certainly nothing less – than prehistoric pieces of art – trying to capture, with words, something like Van Gogh’s “Starry Night”:

or Monet’s “Water Lilies”:

or even Ansel Adams who, like the story tellers of Genesis, certainly had a thing for trees.

But, speaking of John Prine, I hope the Gospel reading wasn’t too on the nose this morning. But I wanted to connect all of this to Jesus, of course. Because it is as poetic and powerful to me that our faith story begins and ends, in a garden, sometimes.

There aren’t enough of even the most beautiful words, songs, poems, or prose to adequately convey the power of God’s love in creation – or by way of the Word made flesh, in Jesus. And I think the two different versions of creation that we find in Genesis aren’t in competition. They’re just evidence and acknowledgment of that fact – of how grand and glorious and full of grace this God is that we worship.

So I think it’s a beautiful thing that both versions of creation’s origin story – and the consummation of God’s resurrection in Jesus … God’s defeat of death … Christ’s victory over Sin for our sake … I think it’s beautiful that all of that, too, takes place in a garden – where light shines in the darkness; where the goodness of God bears fruit for the sake of the world; where sin never gets the last word; where we are all made and made new in God’s image; and where hope rules, in spite of the chaos, because of the grace, mercy, and love of the God we know in Jesus.

Amen