Welcome back here to the Semi -Seminarian. If
you've wandered in here wondering whether grace
still smolders under the ashes of the wrecks
of our lives, you know what? You have come to
the right place. Today's episode is called East
of Eden, The Altar Still Smokes. And it asks
a dangerous little question. What if God never
left the far country? What if he's been lighting
fires there all along? Hey, you've just found
an open seat in the sanctuary of a small -town
Oklahoma church. I'm sure it's probably not Sunday
morning where you are, but while you're listening,
guess what? It is. You've just found an open
seat in the sanctuary. It kind of has creaky
pews, coffee and styrofoam cups, and a congregation
that still stands and sings the hymns a little
bit off -key, but always with our whole hearts.
Hey, nobody here's got it all together. We just
come with the dust of the week still on our boots.
and hope that mercy is big enough for the both
of us. And as you listen, pay attention to the
smoke, how it rises from grief, how it curls
through history, how it carries the sin of a
God who still remembers your name. Somewhere
between Cain's city and Seth's altar, between
sin and grace, we'll hear the heartbeat of redemption.
My name is Pastor Jim Wellhelp. And I will see
you on the other side. So last week, dear church
friends, last week we talked about the first
murder in the Bible and we looked at Cain and
Abel and how we had got to that place where our
jealousy and our personal anger began to get
in the way. with our relationship with God. And
we saw the result. Now, most of us, if we know
anything about the Bible or church or whatever,
we probably have heard the story of Cain and
Abel. And I promise, most of us here, I'm sure
know something about the story of Noah and his
ark. But what I think a lot of people don't know
much about is the story that happens in between.
So last week we talked about Cain. Next week
we're going to talk about Noah. Today the story
is about what happened in between those two events.
And this story opens in the silence after violence.
The ground still remembers the blood and cried
out from it. Abel is gone. Cain is gone. The
garden gate has closed. Adam and Eve are left
with empty hands and this long ache, wondering.
The old couple works the same cursed soil, the
same furrows that once yielded bread by grace
now only gives it by sweat. Eve keeps her eyes
low, yet sometimes, just sometimes, she looks
east and wonders if her son Cain is still alive.
or guilt that somehow swallowed him whole. Grief
has a sound. Weirdly enough, it's the quiet that
follows shouting. That's the sound of Genesis
4 this morning, before our morning's verse 25.
But then scripture says almost casually, Adam
lay with his wife again. It doesn't read like
poetry or miracle. It reads like endurance. Again.
Sometimes faith is nothing more than one word.
Again. After death, after failure, after exile.
Again. Adam and Eve choose. to live again. She
conceives and bears a son, names him Seth, which
means appointed, not replacement. Appointed.
It's her way of saying the covenant is still
alive. The promise still has breath. She's testifying
through her tears that God's story isn't over
even when hers feels like it is. That small act,
naming, sets a new direction in motion. Because
from this boy will come a lineage. And from that
lineage, a world. speaks faith, not from the
mountain, but from the ruins. She doesn't shout
it. She whispers it in the dirt, and it hears
her. Out of barren ground, our seed still lives.
Out of silence, one syllable of grace. What the
world calls finished, God calls a beginning.
Where the blood cried out for vengeance, mercy
hums a new melody under the soil. My friends,
the reading of Scripture, Genesis chapter 4.
And Adam knew his wife again, and she bore a
son and called him Seth. For she said, God has
appointed for me another offspring instead of
Abel, for Cain killed him. And to Seth also a
son was born. And he called his name Enosh. At
that time, people began to call on the name of
the Lord. Two verses, that's all. But between
them lies the hinge of human history. Grief becomes
grace. Silence becomes a song. The first ember
of worship glows again in the ashes of loss.
You ever stop praying because you figured God
had quit listening? If we're honest, every single
one of us has built a house somewhere east of
Eden. We have all looked at the mess we have
made or the loss we didn't choose and thought
maybe God has just moved on. Eve could have done
that. She could have said, two sons gone. The
promise broken. I am done believing. But she
doesn't. She names the new child Seth from the
Hebrew word shoth, and it means to appoint or
to set in place. That's faith language. Eve is
saying the covenant didn't die with Abel. God
is still working even in the midst of my ruin.
When life falls apart, we usually name what's
left according to our pain, replacement, or regret,
or reminder. Eve names hers according to God's
purpose. She calls him appointed. The difference
between despair and faith is often nothing more
than what you choose to name the next thing God
gives you. That was a tongue twister. Genesis
says that through Seth's son Enosh, not Enoch,
we're not there yet. We've got centuries to go.
Enosh, people began to call on the name of the
Lord. And that is the first recorded act of worship
since Eden. No choirs, no priests, just... Somebody
whispering God's name again and realizing heaven
still hears. That's how revival starts, not with
crowds, but with one person who refuses to let
silence have the last word. Maybe it was Eve
teaching her grandsons these stories, telling
them about the garden. about the promise that
one day a son would crush a serpent. Maybe little
Enosh learned to pray from a grandmother who
had buried half her heart but still believed
God was good. Here's what I love. Nothing miraculous
happens in these two verses. No thunder, no angels,
no spectacle, just childbirth naming lineage.
The ordinary cycle of life. And yet heaven writes
it down like a headline. Holiness often hides
in the routine. After catastrophe, the most radical
act of faith is to begin again. And maybe that's
the miracle God's waiting on in your life. Not
lightning, not revival, not fireworks, but your
willingness to rise tomorrow and try again. That's
where Genesis chapter 4 and 25 lives, in the
again. In the soil still damp with tears, a mother
whispers a name, and the story of redemption
keeps on breathing. While Cain's descendants
were inventing tools and songs of vengeance,
Seth's family was tuning the soul. One line writes
music about power. The other sings prayers for
mercy. And right there, friends, listen close.
This is how the rain starts falling. Right there,
that split, when the world splits those two kinds
of people now, they're now two kinds of worship.
And you can still hear both songs on any radio
dial. One glorifies pride, the other whispers
grace. And maybe that's the truest sign that
worship has returned to the earth. Humanity remembers,
even east of paradise, the spirit still hovers,
waiting for someone to call. Worship was never
our idea. It's our memory. Before there was law,
or temple, or Israel, or any of that, there was
this. A family, simply. Calling on the name of
the Lord. And some of us have been living between
the loss we've suffered and the promise we can't
see yet. You've got dirt under your fingernails
and questions in your prayers. Dear friends,
listen. Eve's story says God still appoints life
even in dead places. If... You are breathing.
There is still a line running from your pain
to his promise. You don't have to understand
it. You just have to call on his name again.
Because maybe the first sound of healing isn't
victory. Maybe the first sound of healing Is
just your voice. Saying his name. One more time.
We pause. And see Eve. Holding Seth. A child.
Named for appointment. Not for replacement. Through
him the world learn. To speak God's name again.
But. Just over the horizon. Cain's descendants
were learning another language, the language
of pride, progress, and self -reliance. Two families
now walk the earth. One calls upward, the other
looks inward, and between them stand two altars
and two Every generation since has had to choose
which one to build. Genesis says Cain settled
in the land of Nod, east of Eden, and built a
city named for his son. It's the first city in
scripture born from exile. The man who was supposed
to wander builds walls instead. I find this interesting
because... Cain does what we all do when guilt
burns inside of us. We start constructing things
big enough to drown out our shame. If we can't
find God, maybe we can build something impressive
enough to forget him. That's the human pattern.
The further we drift, From God's presence, the
more we try to replace it with noise and achievement.
And Cain's line does just that. His descendants
fill the world with industry and art. Jabal lives
in tents and raises livestock. Jubal invents
music. Tubal Cain forges iron and bronze. They
give the world trade, beauty, tools. But not
one of them calls on the name of the Lord. The
genius of humanity grows while the soul withers.
Then there's, we're going to skip through a bunch
of pages because we want to get to next week
before Christmas. Then there's Lamech. Lamech
is the seventh from Cain. And he writes the first
poem recorded in the Bible, a boast about a murder
he committed. He sings to his wives, I have killed
the man for wounding me. It's the first country
radio song about vengeance. Violence that began
in a field now has become an art form. That's
what sin does. It turns our wounds into ballads
and our revenge into pride. You can almost see
the smoke rising from those two altars now, one
from Cain's smelting forge, one from Seth's altars.
Both give off light. One warms, the other scorches.
One smells like worship, the other war. The city
of Cain isn't evil because it's civilized. It's
dangerous because it's godless. There is a difference
between culture and covenant. Cain's people built
without prayer. Seth's people pray while they
build. Cain's descendants chase progress. to
fill silence. Seth's descendants fill the silence
with praise. Humanity begins to divide, not by
geography, but posture. One kneeling, one standing
tall. And when the text says that people began
to call on the name of the Lord, it means more
than just praying. It's covenant recognition.
They were invoking God's character. They were
declaring dependence on him, choosing to orient
their lives towards him again. In Hebrew thought,
to call upon a name is to trust that name, to
stake it to your identity. So, here's the picture.
While Cain's descendants are naming cities after
themselves, Seth's family is naming God as Lord.
One names Legacy, the other names Surrender.
And that, friends, is the heart of worship, to
give the naming rights back to God. The genealogy
of Genesis 5 shows that worship has a long memory.
We get to Jared, and he is the father of the
guy you probably thought when I was saying Enosh,
Enoch. And Enoch walks with God. He has a son,
Methuselah, and he lives longer than any man.
Bible trivia, 969 years. As if grace keeps delaying
judgment. These people live ordinary lives, but
inside a different story. One where faith, not
fear, determines their future. Meanwhile, Cain's
line disappears into history. The city he built?
is gone. His song of vengeance fades. But Seth's
altar, it still smokes. It's the same fire Abraham
will stoke. The same flame Elijah will call down.
The same spirit that will fall at Pentecost.
Here is what Genesis is preaching long before
Sinai or Calvary. The world will always offer
you two gospels. One says, make something of
yourself. The other says, surrender yourself
to God. One worships ability. The other worships
grace. One tries to climb back into Eden. The
other waits for heaven to come down. The question
isn't whether we build. It's what we build for.
Every hammer stroke, every melody carries theology
in it. The city of Cain hums with self -salvation.
The altar of Seth hums with dependence. Both
are creative, but only one is redemptive. And
maybe that's what the world still needs to hear
from the church. against building cities, making
music, forging steel. We just refuse to do it
without remembering the one who gives us the
very breath to begin with. The problem in this
world isn't progress, it's forgetfulness. Creativity
isn't sin, it's creation with amnesia. And the
dangerous thing, friends, is when we stop calling
on the name of the Lord, we will start calling
everything else by our own. And the moment we
do, even our best work turns hollow. Cain's city
eventually sinks into the dust. Seth's song keeps
echoing through eternity. That line that prayed
is the line that survives. That's the truth sitting
right there in Genesis 4. Two genealogies, two
gospels, two altars. The smoke fades from one
with the wind. The smoke from the other rises
all the way to Calvary. where another son will
cry out one more time and reopen the door home.
Cain built his city, self built his altar. Two
families walked the same earth under different
skies. And for a while, the smoke of worship
still drifted upwards. But by the time we reached
Genesis 6, A smoke is nearly gone. The world
now has filled with people, but not with prayer.
The noise of violence drowns out the sound of
praise. Humanity has now learned to build and
sing and conquer, but not to remember. And by
now, The descendants of Cain and the descendants
of Seth have mingled so completely that no one
can tell which fire burns for God anymore. That's
what corruption looks like. It's not always rebellion
in the open. Sometimes it's worship without reverence,
progress without gratitude. The story, friends,
is clear. When we stop calling on the name of
the Lord, we start calling everything else our
own. Genesis says the Lord saw the wickedness
of humanity was now great on the earth and that
every intention of the heart was only evil continually.
The Hebrew word for violence there is a word
you may have heard in the news lately. Hamas.
The same word used for cruelty, injustice, oppression.
The whole world had become a cane city. The altar
had been replaced by ambition. And the text says,
as a result, God was grieved in his heart. It's
one of the most staggering lines in scripture.
The creator isn't just enraged at first. He's
heartbroken. The one who shaped the dust now
mourns what the dust has done. The God who walked
in the garden now weeps over what the garden
has become. Judgment in this story doesn't come
from hatred. It comes from heartbreak. But right
when it seems like the smoke had faded for good,
one line rises above the ruins. But Noah. found
grace in the eyes of the Lord. And that is the
sentence that saves the world. This time, not
a city, but an ark. The altar becomes a boat.
And the same mercy that met Eve in her grief
meets Noah in the flood. You can trace it straight
from... Abel's offering to Seth's altar to Noah's
obedience. Every time humanity forgets, God finds
one person willing to remember. Every time the
fire almost dies out, he finds someone to strike
the flint again. And that, dear friends, is what
he is doing today. So let me ask you, church,
what kind of smoke is rising from your life?
Because every one of us burns something. We burn
time. We burn effort. We burn love on whatever
we worship. The question isn't whether there
is fire in your life, but whether it's on the
altar or in the forge. The altar refines, the
forge consumes. The altar changes us, the forge
hardens us. And the good news is that grace still
travels east of Eden, still walks through the
cities of pride, still passes by the forges of
vengeance. And it still looks for the faintest
ember of faith. Noah didn't earn grace. He found
it. Because grace was out there looking for it.
That's what God does. He walks through the burned
out fields and asks, where is the smoke? Sometimes
we think revival means noise. But here in Genesis,
it starts with a whisper. Sometimes we think
God only moves in crowds, but he often starts
with one person who simply remembered how to
pray. World fell apart because everyone forgot
God's name. And it began again because one man
remembered it. That's why you and I can't quit
calling on him now. The world doesn't need louder
sermons or shinier cities. It needs altars. It
needs ordinary believers who will wake up, whisper
his name, and build small fires that refuse to
go out. And maybe you're sitting here feeling
like your fire is long gone. Maybe the floodwaters
have taken everything familiar and you are just
trying to stay afloat. Listen, grace today is
the same as it has always been. When the Lord
looked at the violence of the earth, he didn't
say, start over without me. He said, build something
that floats. That's faith. It's obedience when
everything around you is drowning. And when Noah
finally steps off that ark, the first thing he
does is not build a house or plant a crop. He
builds an altar. The very first puff of smoke
after the flood smells like worship again. It's
the same smoke that started with Eve and Seth,
now rising through Noah and reaching God's heart
once more. So the call this morning is simple.
Light the altar again. Let your life be that
thin column of smoke that reminds heaven you
still remember its name. Pray again. Love again.
Forgive again. Do it, not because you're strong,
but because grace still searches for someone
to keep the fire going. Picture it. Floodwaters
receding, the ground wet and waiting. One man
stands beside a pile of stones, a small flame
flickering, the wind carrying the scent of sacrifice.
God breathes in and calls it good. The rainbow
hasn't even shown up yet, but worship has. the
gospel rhythm from Eden to Calvary. Sin builds
cities. Grace builds altars. Humanity keeps drifting
east and God keeps sending wind to carry the
smoke westward home. The altar still smokes,
church. The promise still stands. And the same
grace that found Noah. still walks your way this
morning asking just one question. Do I still
see your smoke? Amen? Amen. You've been listening
to the Semi -Seminarian this morning. Today,
we stood together east of Eden, where the dirt
still remembers the blood and the altar still
smokes. We heard. How grace doesn't just wait
inside the garden. She walks the long road with
us. Cain built cities to forget. Seth built altars
to remember. Somewhere between those two, we
found ourselves. Half saint, half wanderer. Learning
again to call on the name of the Lord. If the
sermon found you this week, let it do its work.
Let it convict you where you've built without
God. Let it comfort you where the ashes still
glow. Grace hasn't given up on you yet. She is
still looking for a little smoke rising from
your life. Now, before you go, I've got to say,
those old preachers that we used to listen to
on the radio or watch on late night TV, We all
grew up with those guys used to tell us, hey,
you got to send money to me if you wanted to
hear the good news. Well, guess what? I'm not
asking you for a dime, but I am asking you to
throw that old like into the offering plate.
That's how we spread the good news around here.
And if you really believe in what we're trying
to do, go ahead and tithe your subscribe. That
way, every time the church lights come on, You
know we have a church. We sure would love for
you to join us. Hey, I'll see you next week.