(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on February 18, 2017, Lent I)
Cranky Old Enlil
Enlil just wanted some
sleep. It seemed every time he lay
his head down to rest, there was some new commotion. This time it was the humans. The other gods had convinced him that the humans were a good
idea. They would do all the work,
so that the gods could enjoy their leisure. At the time, that had made sense enough to Enlil. So he had said, “Sure, let’s make some
humans, and let them work the fields.”
At first the idea worked a
treat. Enlil grabbed a few good
winks of sleep—around 1200 years.
But then the racket started.
The humans had multiplied exponentially, and now they were making all
sorts of noise.
Rousing from his fitful slumber
with a grumble, cranky old Enlil regretted that he had every agreed to the idea
of the humans. Something had to be
done. His sleep was at stake. So he devised a plan. He would flood the world. That should do the trick.
And it did. Except for one human who had caught
wind of the news and built a boat.
A New Take on Old History
Such is the tale of the great
flood according to ancient Babylonian tradition. The oldest tablet of this story dates back to around one
thousand years before the composition of the Hebrew Bible. (If you’ve heard of Hammurabi, the
Babylonian king famous for developing an organized code of law—this ancient
tablet comes from around the time of his grandson Ammi-Saduqa.) And this flood story is not alone. There survive from other ancient Near
Eastern cultures similar tales a great flood.
So the story that we have in the
Bible is not new. It is, rather,
old history. But it is a new take on old history. It’s almost as if the writer of Genesis
took what was common knowledge and then critiqued it, tweaked it, refitted it
with a different understanding of God
Because in the biblical flood
story, God looks very different.
Whereas crotchety old Enlil acts for selfish motives—for a few more
winks of sleep!—God acts with the intention of helping the earth, rinsing it of
the violence with which it has become filled (cf. 6:11-13). Whereas cranky old Enlil floods the
world out of anger, God floods the world out of grief. Earlier in Genesis, the narrator
explains, “The Lord was sorry that [the Lord] had made humankind on the earth,
and it grieved [God] to [God’s] heart” (6:6).
And then in today’s conclusion to
the story, God appears to grieve the great destruction that God has
wrought. Why else would God
promise not to repeat the deed? The
flood hasn’t wiped out wickedness (cf. 8:21). Humanity hasn’t changed. But God has.
“Never again,” God says, apparently in grief. Three times God says it: “Never again.”
Mechanics versus Meaning
This grief—this change of
heart—this may satisfy some of us.
But perhaps there are others among us who still feel wary about this
God. A change of heart may all be
well and good, but the fact remains that this God committed genocide—nearly
geocide. Is that the kind of God
to whom we want to entrust our lives?
The flood is a troubling story, much more troubling than we make it out
to be, when we tell it as a children’s story and show pictures of an ark and a
rainbow and all the happy animals.
We don’t include pictures of all the bodies that must have been floating
in the water, or washed up on the newly dried land.
But maybe reading this story as a
historically factual portrayal of God misses the point. Genesis alone is filled with historical
contradictions. Did God create humanity
before plants, or plants before humanity?
Depends on whether you’re reading Genesis 1 or Genesis 2. Did the flood last 40 days or 150
days? Depends which verse you’re
reading in the flood story.
Genesis, it seems to me, cares
much less for the mechanics of what actually happened and much more about the
meaning behind what happened. I
would say this true of the whole Bible.
Which is why for me, reading the Bible isn’t about determining the
precise events of history. It’s
about listening for the heartbeat of God.
It’s about holding our interpretive stethoscopes up to the text and
determining how another person or another people encountered the living God.
From a God Above to a God Beside
In the case of today’s scripture,
I wonder if the ancient Israelites weren’t trying to make sense of what was
common knowledge in their day—namely, that a great flood had come from heaven
above. The interesting part of the
story, then, isn’t that there was a flood. Everyone already knew that. The interesting part of the story is the way that their
understanding about God changes.
In today’s scripture, as God
repeats, “Never again, never again,” God also gives a sign of God’s promise: a
bow. This is the same word used
for the weaponry of a bow and arrow.
Simply put, this God is hanging up God’s bow. Never again will this God resort to violence against all the
earth. Instead this God decides to
enter into covenant, into relationship, with humanity and all of creation.
So maybe the real drama of the
flood story is not what historically happened, but rather how the character of
God undergoes a profound transformation in ancient Israelite consciousness:
from a warrior God to a relationship God, from a God who grumbles about sleep
to a God who grieves about life, from a distant and detached God to a caring
and faithful God, from God above to God beside, from a God of fear to a God of
love.
Good News for the Wilderness
In my mind, this is especially
good news as we enter the season of Lent, a season of wilderness, when we
honestly face up to our lack of control and our losses. Perhaps in such a season, our first
desire is for a God who is in full control, a sky god riding on the clouds with
his bow and arrow, imposing order from above through fear and power. But the ancient flood tales remind us
the full implications of such a god.
Genocide. Nearly
geocide. What comfort is that to
us who walk in the wilderness?
The good news of today’s
scripture is what ancient Israel discovered long ago: that God does not carry
the bow, but rather hangs it in the sky.
That God does do not declare war on the world but rather enters into
relationship with it. While the
rest of the world imagined a God above who ruled with fear, Israel encountered
a different God, a God beside them whose rule was love.
That is the good news that we see
most clearly in Jesus. It is the good news that we do not walk alone in the
wilderness. In fact, that’s
precisely where we see Jesus today in our Gospel scripture.
What Gets Us Through the Wilderness,
What Makes Us Who We Are
If you weren’t here this last
Wednesday, you might be noticing for the first time that the paraments are
missing in our sanctuary. There is
very little color. This is a
symbolic absence. The emptiness of
our sanctuary mirrors the emptiness of the wilderness.
But the table is still here. As the sky reminds us that God has hung
up the bow (was never really carrying the bow in the first place), the table
reminds us that God has gone a step further: in Christ, God slips on some sandals
and walks beside us in the wilderness. We know that God loves us not only
because of the bow God hangs in the sky but also because of the steps God takes
by our side…in the person of Jesus, who joins us in the wilderness, shares our
sorrows and our joys, and shows us the way by the simplest actions, like
breaking bread and giving thanks and forgiving others and washing each other’s
feet.
And if the story of Jesus is any
indication, the wilderness is in fact a place of great transformation, a place
where through our lack and our loss we discover who we really are and who God
really is. In the wilderness,
Jesus rejected dominion over the world and displays of supernatural ability: he
rejected fantasies of power and prestige.
I think he was relying instead on the words that he heard just before he
entered the wilderness, “You are my Son, the Beloved.” Love was what sustained him in the
wilderness and defined who he was to become.
May it be so for us this Lenten
season, as Christ walks with us in the wilderness.
Prayer
Creator God,
Who does not grumble
But grieves;
Whose way is not control
But covenant and companionship;
May the bow above us
And the table before us
Be our sustenance in the wilderness;
May your love define
Who we are becoming.
In Christ our companion. Amen.
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