Timing or Mer-Man Emerges from the Crystal Sea in Search of Henchman Status

I t’s official. Humanity has gotten off to a bad start. Instead of following God’s advice, Adam and Eve took a sharp left and jumped the General Lee (insert Dixie horn here) over the Euphrates and out of the garden for good. I doubt it would surprise anyone if Genesis 4:1 simply read: “Now what?” You expect to read about abandonment, separation anxiety and the invention of Xanax, but when the dust settles Eve acknowledges a partnership with God still exists. With the birth of their firstborn, Cain, there’s an understanding that he still wants them to succeed, despite the recent turn of events.

A less than honest story might compensate God’s commitment with a few generations of faithful service from Adam and Eve’s offspring, but that’s not what you find in Genesis 4. Instead, son #1 keeps God up at all hours with his troubling Henry Evans behavior. All that’s missing is an incriminating rubber duck. But like any good psychological thriller the story is all about the buildup. Cain, an expert farmer, offers God the leftovers from his labor—produce he can’t eat or sell. The text doesn’t say the offerings are a requirement, but rather self-initiated gestures of gratitude in acknowledgment of what God gave first. But Cain isn’t exactly saying, “I couldn’t have done it without you” when he shows up with a wheelbarrow full of bad fruit. Aunt Bethany’s cat food-infused Jell-O salad looks like the gift of the century in comparison. God rejects the half-hearted donations in favor of his younger brother, Abel, a shepherd who gives without reserve from the finest resources his flocks have to offer. This isn’t a case of God playing favorites, though. Abel may have earned his favor, but his attention remains squarely on Cain. God goes into Les Brown self-help mode in an effort to motivate him: “[I]f you do not do well, [evil] is crouching at the door … its desire is for you, but you must master it” (v. 7). But instead of trying to fix the problem, Cain accosts his brother in a Thunderdome showdown—“two men enter, one man leaves”—that ends with him murdering Abel in cold blood.

Cain’s disregard for human life is another massive breach in God’s ultimate plan. If not for his violent outburst, the first human death wouldn’t have been recorded (by scriptural estimates) for nearly a thousand years. Cain’s action (don’t call it murder, he prefers trendsetter) causes a rift in the way humans are meant to interact and, if we’re to believe the text, the trickle-down effect continues to this day. God once again has every right to tie on the red headband and go full-on John Rambo, using deadly force in response. After all, Cain drew first blood. But just like he did in the wake of Adam and Eve’s misstep, he arrives in a nonthreatening manner, asking questions: “Where is Abel your brother?” (v. 9). It’s fair to say God already knows the answer, but gives him the chance to come clean anyway. Cain responds, “I do not know. Am I my brother’s keeper?” Without a hint of remorse or responsibility he throws the question back in God’s face. The reply you expect from God is, “Hulk, smash!” But he keeps throwing curveballs. When Cain shows no regret, he reveals Abel’s location isn’t a mystery to him: “[Y]our brother’s blood is crying out to Me from the ground” (v. 10). That doesn’t sound good. Crank up the chainsaw. It’s time to call Ash Williams.

Then, like his parents before him, Cain is punished. But God doesn’t pull a Marsellus Wallace and break out the pliers and blowtorch. It’s not eye for eye or blood for blood. Cain, a tiller of the ground, is condemned to no longer have success as a farmer and sentenced to wander without property to call his own (vv. 11, 12). As Delmar O’Donnell would say, “You ain’t no kind of man if you ain’t got land.” And sure enough, upon hearing the verdict Cain reacts like God has thrown the book at him (v. 13). He deserves lethal injection, yet is spared with an alternate penalty that allows him to keep his life. God even goes so far as to give him a sign so that no one will kill him in retribution (v. 15). There’s much debate over what this “sign” might’ve been. Some say it involved a letter or symbol being carved into his forehead, à la Lieutenant Aldo Raine’s masterpiece. Others speculate a dog was assigned to protect and guide him. There’s no telling what the truth is, but it’s safe to say it was an effective arrangement considering the long list of Cain’s descendants recorded in subsequent verses.

But God’s plan isn’t on the immediate horizon. The gears of justice are set into motion, but they turn in accordance with his inconceivable timing. God doesn’t approach Noah and proclaim fire and brimstone next Thursday at dawn. Instead, he predicts a coming flood that will take over a hundred years to arrive. And you thought your weatherman was accurate. The elongated forecast period gives Noah time to construct a massive boat—the Ark—which also provides a symbolic warning of the impending catastrophe. In the process, Noah becomes the original Evan Baxter. The epic project draws a regular crowd of leering tourists taking selfies in front of the Ark and asking questions Noah gets tired of answering. There’s no indication he stopped cutting lumber to proselytize them. Noah seems to regard the crowd as a lost cause. God doesn’t. Instead of launching a surprise attack and catching everyone off guard, he goes out of his way to offer them an opportunity to give up their inhumane practices and quite literally change the forecast. They’ll only need flood insurance if they don’t comply. But despite the foreboding nature of his declaration, nowhere does the text say God is angry at humanity. It actually appears to be more good news about God. I know what you’re thinking. I’m thinking it, too. How does widespread destruction equal good news? Two things stand out. The first is God’s track record. He hasn’t exactly proven himself eager to kill off the main characters. If he wanted to pull the plug he could’ve done it after Adam and Eve decided to hit Burger King and have it their way. The second thing is his leniency. Yeah, there’s a storm brewing, but Bodhi’s corpse is gonna rot away on Bells Beach waiting on it. This is where the element of timing comes into play. Even with bad weather in the forecast, he remains committed to life.

Once the Ark is built, Noah’s—and presumably his family’s—primary tasks are gathering food and animals to take with them, though Genesis 7 states many animals came on their own accord (v. 9). This is little consolation for animal rights activists who are more interested in the unfortunate woodland creatures that didn’t make the cut. What did Bambi and Thumper do to deserve such a harsh fate? It’s a fair question. Somebody crank up a mournful Sarah McLachlan tune so we can discuss it properly.

There are a number of theories on why animals perished in the flood alongside the condemned humans, but the best textual answer is simply that mankind was designated as ruler and subduer of earth and everything in it (Genesis 1:28 just won’t go away). And as mankind went, so did the earth and animals. It’s the natural result of the creation order. Genesis 8:21 says it happened this way because of mankind. If you veer the Shaggin’ Wagon into oncoming traffic there’s gonna be consequences for you and everyone carpooling with you. It has nothing to do with meanness or fairness. This explanation isn’t going to make Doris Day belt out “Que Sera, Sera,” but that’s the gist of the scriptural justification. Humanity’s exceedingly poor choices put the animals in peril. The good news for the critters is God makes room for them as well by somehow fitting seven pairs of every clean and two of every unclean animal on the Ark (v. 2). I’m no good at math, but even I know this doesn’t add up. The Ark was big, but it wasn’t that big. Like a clown car gag in reverse animals inexplicably keep filing into the Ark, despite their size and impossibly large numbers. It could be theorized that the animals came to Noah as Tiny Toons and not full-sized adults, but, even if that was the case, the Ark still wouldn’t have been large enough. As Martin Brody would say, “You’re gonna need a bigger boat.” But before you attempt to swallow that 2×4 sideways in an effort to reconcile the seemingly miraculous circumstances, consider this: Scripture says each creature was numbered according to its kind (see 6:20). It doesn’t say anything about species, so, by the standard of taxonomy, this would indicate thousands upon thousands of kinds, not millions of species. If correct, the Ark’s much-debated size is suddenly a non-issue. I’ll let you decide.

As storm clouds gather in the distance God pledges to protect Noah’s family from the impending disaster. The Torah indicates his name once again shifts from justice to mercy in this moment. They don’t even get the chance to christen the ship with a bottle of sparkly before God channels his inner Ororo Munroe, causing the sky to open up with one hell of a meteorological event (v. 11). Still, not everyone is convinced. A bunch of people join Shaun at the Winchester to have a nice cold pint and wait for it all to blow over. By the time they realize the forecast is accurate, Johnny Cash is singing “Five Feet High and Rising.” You know the story: It rains for forty days and nights, causing floodwaters to consume the land for several months (v. 24). But didn’t other people own boats? Without question. There had to be more than a few kayaks and jon boats around. Problem is, they weren’t made for rough water and certainly couldn’t carry a year’s worth of supplies. Not even the Deacon and his band of Smokers are prepared for this Waterworld prequel. The insinuation is it was a worldwide event, but it’s possible it was primarily localized to Prestige Crest after the dam broke. By the time dry land is confirmed again in Genesis 8, Noah and company have spent a full year cooped up on the Ark. But, unlike Aronofsky’s 2014 film, Noah doesn’t mistake the boat for the Overlook Hotel and go all Jack Torrance on his family.

The tendency is to canonize Noah. Genesis says he “walked with God” and was “blameless in his time” (see 6:9), but to say his decency saved mankind is inaccurate. Noah may have been notable among his peers, but the text says it’s God’s willful timing that saved mankind. Can a good guy go on a killing spree and still be considered good? Come to think of it, yeah. No one faults William Wallace for going full-tilt braveheart on the English ruling-class. Those guys deserved it—and apparently so did everyone in Noah’s time. God rides out of the desert like Clint Eastwood’s man with no name and is saddled with the thankless task of cleaning up a town overrun with bad guys. The place is in smoldering shambles with only a few fortunate townspeople left standing when the nameless stranger finally leaves, but we all know it’s a better place for it. That’s essentially the flood story in a nutshell. It’s unexpected, but, when read in the proper context, the account is actually about God saving a world that deserves total annihilation. Didn’t see that coming.