Hey friend, welcome back here to the semi -seminary
and wherever you are right now, it probably isn't
Sunday morning on the clock, but it's Sunday
morning here in your headphones. You've just
found yourself an open pew in a small town, Oklahoma
church, sunlight slanting through the windows,
coffee still warm in the foyer, and you know
what? It's time for church. We've been on quite
a journey lately, walking the road that runs
between the garden and the flood. Now, a lot
of folks skip that section of scripture, but
there is more life and heartbreak there than
most of us remember. And we started out in Cain's
field, listening to the ground and how it learned
to cry. Then we followed the smoke from Seth's
altar, learning that worship still rises even
when the world forgets God's name. And now we've
come to the third and final part of this little
revival through Genesis, the story of Noah, rain
and remembering. If you've missed the first two,
circle back and catch them because they'll set
the table for what we're about to hear today.
So settle in, tune your heart. Let's see what
grace sounds like after the storm. And I will
see you on the other side. Okay, we are actually
wrapping up a three -part series called East
of Eden. And what we've been doing in these three
parts is we've kind of been looking at what is
the story of the Bible, the people involved,
between, because most of us know, Adam and Eve
lived in the garden and then they ate the...
and then they got kicked out. And most everybody
knows that. And then we all, almost all of us,
know this story about Noah and the flood and
the rainbow. But a lot of us don't know what
happened in the in -between part. And that's
actually what we have been looking at over these
last three weeks. We've walked. these stories
together. First, we stood in Cain's field and
we heard how the ground learned to cry. Then
we watched a mark. Remember he got marked? And
how the mark of a murderer kept the story from
ending. After that, last week, we looked at the
column of thin worship rising. From the third
son, Seth, from his altar, carried it through
long genealogies. We found one man still listening
for God while the world had forgotten his name.
Noah, who built an ark by faith, and when the
waters fell, built an altar by memory. Those
two sermons hum under today's text like a bass
note. Sin builds cities. Grace builds altars.
Now, in the story, the storm has passed. And
the question we're left to wrestle is not did
we survive, but what now? If the first two movements
taught us where the smoke came from, then this
closing song asks us where the bow will point
and whether we will remember why it shines at
all. As we begin our story, the smell of the
air is like wet cedar and... Animals. Sunlight
breaks through a sky rinsed clean. And everything,
everything seems to be exhaling at once. The
birds stunned post -storm quiet. Even the ravens
now look reverent. Noah's hand rests on the ark's
rail, calloused and ready. But there's a tremor
in him that has nothing to do with his age. You
don't ride judgment in a wooden houseboat across
a world of water and then just step off casual.
The ground is new. but familiar at the same time.
Mud that remembers Eden. Clay that hasn't learned
to lie yet. It yields underfoot like promise.
Behind Noah, the ark sits half on shore, half
in memory. A beached testimony. that obedience
to God can float. And ahead of him, there is
no map. Only wind and sun and horizon, like mercy,
might live there. And you, you might see it in
his eyes. Do you still remember us, Lord? He's
done everything by the book. If the book is a
voice and a set of measurements received in violent
rage, he obeyed when his neighbors laughed. He
hammered while the sky was still blue. He waited
inside while the world turned to water. And now
he waits again, this time on dry ground with
a different ache. How do we begin to live again?
Before the first stone is stacked, Before the
first flame licks the morning air, a hush falls.
The kind right after thunder leaves and before
the birds dare to sing again. You already know
the feeling. You've stood in hospital parking
lots at dawn. In empty kitchens after a hard
night. In sanctuaries where yesterday's tears
have yet to dry, the world keeps its breath to
hear what God might say next. And into that listening
silence, Scripture opens its mouth. Friends,
the reading of the word, Genesis chapter 8. But
God remembered Noah and all of the wild animals
and all of the domestic animals that were with
him in the ark. Great start. And God made a wind
blow over the earth. The waters subsided. The
fountains of the deep and the windows of heaven
were closed. The rain from the heavens restrained.
And the waters. gradually receded from the earth.
At the end of 150 days, the waters had abated.
And in the seventh month, on the seventh day
of the month, the ark came to rest on the mountains
of Ararat. The waters continued to abate until
the tenth month. And in the tenth month, on the
first day of the month, the tops of the mountains
began to appear. And at the end of forty days,
Noah opened the window of the ark that had been
made and sent out a raven. And it went to and
fro until the waters were dried up from the earth.
He then sent out the dove from him. to see if
the waters had subsided from the face of the
ground. But the dove found no place to set its
foot, and it returned to him the ark, for the
waters were still on the face of the whole earth.
So he put out his hand, and he took it and brought
it into the ark with him, and he waited another
seven days. And again he sent out the dove. From
the ark. And the dove came back to him in the
evening and in its beak, a freshly plucked olive
leaf. So Noah knew that the waters had subsided
from the earth. Then he waited another seven
days and sent out the dove and it did not return
to him anymore. In the 600. First year. In the
first month, the first day of the month, the
waters were dried up from the earth. And Noah
removed the covering of the ark and looked and
saw that the face of the ground was drying. In
the second month, on the 27th day of the month,
the earth was dry. Then God said to Noah, Go.
Out of the ark, you and your wife and your sons
and your sons' daughters, bring out with you
every living thing that is with you, all flesh,
birds and animals, and every creeping thing that
creeps on the earth, so that they may abound
the earth and be fruitful and multiply on the
earth. So Noah... went out with his sons and
his wives and his sons' wives. And every animal,
every creeping thing, every bird, everything
that moves on the earth went out of the ark by
families. Then Noah built an altar to the Lord
and took of every clean animal, and of every
clean bird and offered burnt offerings on the
altar. And when the Lord smelled the pleasing
odor, the Lord said in his heart, I will never
again curse the ground because of humankind.
For the inclination of the human heart is evil
from youth. Nor will I ever again destroy every
living creature as I have done. As long as the
earth endures, seed time and in harvest, cold
and heat, summer and winter, day and night shall
not cease. Then Noah built the altar. We've heard
that music before, haven't we? Smoke rising from
the stones, breath rising from the heart. The
first scent God chooses to announce the future
is not rainfall or thunder, it's worship. The
Lord smells the offering and speaks a promise
into his own heart. You don't need me to tell
you what that means. God binds himself to memory.
He ties the world's tomorrow to an altar's smoke
today. The flood writes a line of judgment across
the sky. The altar writes a line of grace through
God's heart. And before that bow ever shines,
the covenant is already warming the air. The
same spirit wind that hovered over the waters
in Genesis 1 is thick, drying judgment like the
morning dew. Creation is restarting, not because
Noah was perfect, but because God decided to
remember. I want you to notice something. The
Bible doesn't actually tell us anything Noah
said when he got off the ark. No victory shout.
No kissing the ground. We made it, Lord. Just
the sound of sandals sinking into soft, muddy
earth. And maybe you know this feeling. When
you've done everything God has asked and the
silence afterward feels heavier than the storm
itself. The adrenaline's gone. The crisis is
over. And now you must live again. Noah stands
there. Time, real quick. This is me. This is
poetic license. The words of Noah is not spoken,
right? But let me, let us imagine, okay? I want
to be crystal clear. I'm not, please don't hear
me putting words in Noah's mouth. That's not
there, okay? But imagine Noah standing there,
blinking at a sky that no longer roars. Around
him are eight people, one family, all with survivor
eyes, half wonder, half worry. Every direction
looks the same, wet ground, empty horizon, and
the smell of animal musk soaked into their very
beings. So I imagine maybe his son Shem saying,
what do we do now, Dad? And Noah doesn't have
an answer yet. He's obedient, yes. But obedience
doesn't always come with clear closure. Friends,
sometimes the ark stops, the rain stops, and
you still feel the waves moving inside of you.
You know this truth, even when we don't like
saying it. Faith sometimes... can get lonely
after it works. Noah built the boat, preached
the warning, rode the flood, and now he is staring
at a blank world. And the hardest command of
all comes next. Live again. And that, friends,
is where many of us saw out. We know how to pray
in panic. How to seek God in crisis. How to row
through judgment. So often we struggle with simply
breathing in peace. God remembered. Noah, scripture
says. But I think Noah is learning how to remember
God. So what does he do? He starts gathering
up stones, not to build a new mansion. Not to
fence a yard and keep other people out. To build
an altar. Because, pro tip, that's what you do
when you don't know what else to do. Worship.
Let's watch him now. Slow, methodical, stacking
route. upon rock. Each one leaves maybe a brown
smear of mud on his hands. He's building on mud
that hasn't even dried yet. There's no temple
blueprint, no priestly robe, no choir, just a
man, a handful of stones and gratitude thumping
through him like a pulse. He's not saying thank
you for sparing my life. He's saying thank you
for remembering me. Friends, that is a vital
distinction. That is the difference. Gratitude
born of grace doesn't boast of survival. It bows
low to mercy. The text then says that Noah offered
of every clean animal and bird. Let us not skip
past this. This isn't spare change. This is sacrificial
generosity. After a flood that had wiped out
the world, every living thing is precious, scarce,
endangered. Yet, Noah gives the first and the
best of it back to God. And if you're somewhere
kind of down the road on your spiritual journey,
you may know this. If you're just starting your
spiritual journey, you will encounter this one
day. If you've been down that road with Jesus
for a while, you already know this to be true
because you've been there. God saves you from
something. And the first thing grace asks is,
now, will you trust me with the rest? Most of
us wait until the floodwaters are gone and the
savings account is full before we offer our praise.
Noah builds an altar while his sandals still
squish. That is worship. Not performance. Not
repayment. It is the first act of a new creation.
And it smells like smoke and surrender. Now,
my church friends, let us look closer. Genesis
says, when the Lord smelled the pleasing odor,
the Lord said in his heart, never again will
I curse the ground because of humankind. What
does that mean? That means God is moved, not
by fear, not by threat, but by fragrance. He
breathes in devotion and exhales covenant. The
altar becomes a conversation between divine memory
and our gratitude. Noah never says a word. The
smoke does all the talking. You know this. God
still smells the smoke. your prayer won't form
a sentence. When all you've got is a trembling,
thank you, whispered over ashes, heaven hears
it. Because the smell of mercy never really left
the air. It drifted from Ararat to Calvary. where
another sacrifice rose, not of beasts, but of
the sun. But we're not there yet. Right now,
we are still standing with Noah, wet to the knees,
holding faith like a torch in a world that forgot
what fire even was. And let's not romanticize
him either. Noah's altar isn't a mountaintop
Instagram moment. It's therapy. It's the first
prayer after real trauma. It's a man trying to
trust joy again. You ever try that? To believe
that laughter won't jinx you? To smile after
a loss and not flinch? That's Noah. He's grateful,
yes, but he is haunted, too. Behind his worship,
ghosts line up. Neighbors, cousins, old friends
no longer there. Their faces blur in the rising
smoke. He very painfully remembers what judgment
sounds like when it drowns the whole world. You
know this ache because gratitude and grief can
live in the same heart. The trick is letting
gratitude lead the song. Noah does. He doesn't
run from the ache. He offers it. And that is
why God calls the smell pleasing. Because, friends,
true worship Isn't clean. But it is honest. We
clean up for church. Noah brings mud. And heaven
breathes deep. And I wonder if you caught that
line earlier. God made a wind to pass over the
earth. The Hebrew word there is ruach. Spirit.
Breath. Same word. when God breathed into Adam.
Same word that hovered over the waters in Genesis
1. And maybe you can see it, creation 2 .0. Same
elements, same breath, new grace. The spirit
that birthed the world now dries its tears. And
that wind doesn't just move water, it moves Noah's
heart towards worship. The flood wasn't the last
word, breath was. Friends, that's the gospel
rhythm. Judgment gives way to wind, and wind
gives way to worship, and it's always in that
order. So maybe you've come through your own
flood, addiction, divorce, grief, Burnout. And
the ground underneath you still feels soft. And
maybe you are just waiting for a sign that it's
safe to start building again. Here is your sign.
The spirit is already moving over your waters.
You can still build an altar in a world that's
just learning to breathe again. And you know
what? You can still say thank you before you
see the rainbow. Now, maybe you are suspecting
what is to come. Obedience always leads to overflow.
Noah's faith built an ark when nobody needed
one. His worship builds an altar when nobody
asked for one. And heaven answers both. And notice
how God responds, not with new marching orders,
but with a promise. He doesn't command another
sacrifice. Instead, he gives us a guarantee.
As long as the earth endures, seed time and harvest,
summer and winter, day and night shall not cease.
That is covenant language before the rainbow
ever appeared in the sky. The smoke rises and
God rides stability back into creation. Seasons
return. Rhythm resumes. Mercy becomes the metronome
of the world. Grace doesn't just forgive. You
know this. It also restores. It brings back the
pattern you thought the storm erased. And that
is what the altar does also. It retunes reality
to mercy's frequency. So here's the question
hanging in the steam between heaven and earth.
The world restarted today. What would you build
first? Another ark just in case? Or an altar
to remember who carried you through the storm?
Tragedy of our time isn't wickedness. It's amnesia.
We forget the flood as soon as that ground dries.
And we think safety means we can stop thanking.
And you know this one by heart. It is very easy
to turn a miracle into entitlement. How fast
we can trade thank you, Lord, into I deserve
this. Noah's storm interrupts that reflex. The
first act of new humanity. is gratitude, not
governance, not technology, not architecture.
Worship. So the next time your prayer feels small
or your praise feels repetitive, remember, heaven
once built the world because one man lit a fire
and said thank you. That's not superstition.
That's covenant maintenance. And maybe, just
maybe, The reason your life hasn't capsized again
is that God still smells the same smoke in you.
Now, I can't leave without talking about this
rainbow. Clouds parting like a curtain God's
pulling back to show what he's been hiding in
the light. The last drops of rain still cling
to the leaves and the air smells like rain's
apology. And then, right there across the horizon,
a half circle of fire and water appears, judgment
into joy. God says, this is a sign of the covenant
I make between me and you and every living creature.
When the bow is in the clouds, I will see it
and remember the everlasting covenant. The Hebrew
word for bow is keshet. Same word used for a
weapon, bow and arrow, bow. So picture this.
Imagine the Almighty hanging his war bow in the
sky, string down, arrowless, aimed not at the
earth, but at his own heart. It's what covenant
looks like when it's colored in. Divine disarmament.
The flood was God's grief spoken in water. The
rainbow is his restraint, sung in light. The
world still feels broken. He admits it plainly.
The inclination of the human heart is evil from
youth. Yet, he promises never again to uncreate
what he loves. Judgment steps aside. To let mercy
drive. When God says, I will remember, he's not
confessing his forgetfulness. He's pledging faithfulness.
In Hebrew thought, to remember is to act according
to a covenant. God's mercy is not nostalgia,
it's motion. Each time sunlight and storm meet,
he moves again towards mercy. So when that bow
arcs overhead, it's not God reminding us. It's
God reminding himself. We see the promise, but
he feels it. Creation becomes his accountability
partner. The rainbow is not sentimental decor.
It's divine discipline. That's why it's curved
outward and not inward. It shields the earth,
not threatening it. The judge wears his reminder
on his own horizon. Now, let me just close with
these final thoughts. You already know what that
bow costs. Because grace always costs someone
something. In Noah's story, God lays down his
weapon. In our stories, he lays down his son.
The cross is the rainbow bent vertical. The same
mercy that spanned the clouds now runs red down
wood. And when Jesus cried, it is finished. Heaven
is still pointing the arrow at its own heart.
Though his family watches the rainbow and doesn't
speak. Sometimes the holiest thing you can do
is observe. Their faces are dirty, their clothes
are torn, but the light touches them anyway.
That's grace's favorite kind of skin, the weathered
kind. God's voice still lingers. Be fruitful,
multiply. Same words he spoke in Eden. The covenant
isn't a new rule. It's a restart of relationship.
God saying, let's try this again, but this time
in mercy. And you know the rhythm. And for the
next three weeks, we're going to see this pattern
play out again. We re -break it and he remakes
it. Next time you see one, don't just point and
post it. Remember that you are looking at the
world's very first sermon illustration. The rainbow's
last appearance in Scripture, we actually find
in Revelations 4 and 3. Around the throne was
a rainbow that looked like an emerald. That means
the covenant didn't fade, it graduated. The bow
that once spanned judgment now crowns glory.
So, if Genesis showed mercy stretched across
the sky, Revelation shows mercy enthroned. The
beginning and the end hum the same note. God
remembers. So let's land this thing where we
started, at an altar. Noah's fire still flickers.
Seth's smoke still rises. Abel's cry still echoes.
And the ground that once drank blood now grows
bread again. East of Eden, the altar still smokes.
West of the flood, the rainbow still shines.
And between them, the spirit still blows where
it will. Even through rain clouds. So if you're
tired, if your prayers sound like dripping water,
look up. The storm that tried to bury you has
just painted your sky. And maybe, just maybe,
friend, God is remembering you right now. Amen?
Amen. You know, what is really fascinating to
me about the Bible is sometimes you can really
feel like you know the Bible, but until you actually
put the pieces... Together, the stories together,
and you stand back and look. Sometimes it's not
until you do that, until you can see this beautiful
picture. And maybe in these three stories of
East of Eden, maybe that's what this whole story
has been about right from the start. Not just
survival, remembrance. God remembers Noah, and
maybe that's the line we've been needing to hear
all along. The storms come, the floods rise,
the world changes shape, but God never forgets
the one he's carried. So, if you've been standing
in mud that still remembers judgment, if you've
been wondering whether grace still smells like
smoke, hear this. Same God who sent the wind
to dry the waters, still breathing over your
life. You can start again. You can build again.
And you know what? You can worship right there.
The dirt's still wet beneath your feet. And when
the sky splits open and the light bends across
it, you'll know it was never just about the rainbow.
It's always about the remembering. Now, before
you head out, I've got one last thing. We don't
ask for money around here. This little digital
church, it runs on witness, not wallets. But
if something in today's message met you where
you are, do me a favor. Hit that like button.
Throw it in the offering plate like we used to
do back home. And if you want to know when church
meets again. hit that subscribe button. That
way, you get a little tap on the shoulder that
says, hey, it's Sunday again. Until then, be
blessed. It's late to static summon. And if you
ain't going to send your money to me, then just
whisper that like into the plate. Every click's
a candle in the dark. Telling heaven we're still
here, still listening. So before you turn that
dial, throw it in the plate.