The flood wasn't God's temper tantrum. The word
is shakat. It means the world was rotten from
the inside out. And God grieved at what he saw.
Before the rain ever fell, the world was already
breaking. Genesis says the earth had become corrupt,
ruined from the inside out. Violence wasn't an
interruption. It was the operating system. And
into that noise, God spoke one man, not with
thunder, with measurements, wood, pitch, box
built for a storm no one else believed was coming.
That's where we are in the story. Standing on
dry ground, staring at a blueprint that doesn't
explain. How to steer. And if you're joining
us, you're right on time. Dinner's wrapped up
here at Midweek Fellowship. Plates are stacked.
Coffee's still warm. We had lasagna tonight,
and a good one, too. The kind that slows the
room down. I'm the pastor here at this little
church. My name's Pastor Jim, and now all the
chairs are turned facing me. Our Bible's open,
and it's time to listen together. So, take a
breath, settle in, and walk this text with us.
I'll see you. On the other side. I was coming
down to the fellowship hall and I thought, oh,
I hope Wayne's feeling better because you weren't
here on Sunday, right? Because I was like, how
am I going to start the Bible study if you're
not here to give me the thumbs up? So you're
here. Thumbs up. Okay. I'm just, we're going
to finish the holiday season. And now for a while,
we're just going to kind of explore the Bible
together and try to find things I think that
you would think are interesting. And the way
I like to do that is look at stories that you
think you know pretty well, and then maybe show
you just a different angle or a lens to look
at it. And you might find something new. to discover.
And that's what I'm going to do, I hope. And
so let me start with tonight's story by setting
the scene. The world before the flood is loud
with violence. And the book of Genesis doesn't
soften it that earth is corrupt. The Hebrew word
is shekath. And it actually means ruined or spoiled
or destroyed from the inside out. Humanity had
spent generations building something, and they
built a civilization that runs on exploitation.
The strong take what they want, the powerful
consume the weak, and God looks at what has become
of creation and He grieves. This is important
for our study tonight to fully understand. The
flood... is not arbitrary divine anger. God isn't
throwing a temper tantrum. The text says that
God's heart was grieved. The Hebrew suggests
something closer to being wounded. The ache of
a parent watching a child choose destruction
and being unable to stop it. And in the middle
of this ruined world, there's one family, one
man who walked with God, not perfectly, not heroically,
just faithfully. A man whose name, Noach, means
rest or comfort. And God speaks to him. But here's
what we need to understand about this moment
in the story. Noah has no frame of reference
about what is about to happen. or what God is
asking. Look, we're Okies, right? We know what
it's like to have a dry spell of weather. Some
traditions argue that at this point in the story,
rain hasn't even fallen yet. The earth was watered
by mists and springs. Whether or not that's literal,
the point stands. Noah is being asked to prepare
for a catastrophe that has zero precedent. He's
building a boat in a world that has never seen
a flood before. That's the context. A man measuring
lumber for a disaster no one else sees coming.
A man whose obedience looks like madness to everybody
who's watching him. A man who will spend decades
constructing something enormous based on nothing
but a voice and a promise. And that voice is
very, very specific on how to build it. Picture
him at work. Not the cartoon version with the
smiling beard and the... Giraffes poking over
the railing. Picture the real Noah. A man standing
in a field, looking at nothing but open sky,
dry ground, and God starts talking measurements.
300 cubits long, 50 cubits wide, 30 cubits high,
three decks, one window, one door. Use this kind
of wood. Coat it inside and out with this kind
of pitch. Build it exactly like I am telling
you to. Genesis slows way down here. The text
lingers over specifications like a contractor
who's been burned before and isn't leaving anything
to chance this time. This is not vague spirituality.
This is not... Follow your heart. This is craftsmanship
obedience. Sawdust and sweat and the smell of
pitch under your fingernails. And Noah builds
exactly it the way God describes. Every cubit,
every deck, every coat of sealant. Which makes
what God doesn't describe all the more striking.
Because when you read the blueprints carefully,
when you actually look at what's there and what's
missing, you'll notice something that changes
everything. There's no rudder, no sails, no oars,
no steering mechanism of any kind. The ark isn't
designed to go anywhere. It's just designed to
hold something. And that's not an oversight.
That's actually theology. So friends, tune your
ears to the very first book of the Bible, Genesis,
beginning in chapter 6, starting at verse 13.
God's instructions for the ark. And God said
to Noah, I have determined to make an end of
all flesh, for the earth is filled with violence
because of them. Now I'm going to destroy them
along with the earth. Make yourself an ark of
cypress wood, rooms in the ark, and cover it
inside and out with pitch. This is how you are
to make it. The length of the ark shall be 300
cubits, its width 50 cubits, and its height 30
cubits. Make a roof for the ark and finish it
to a cubit above and put the door of the ark
in its side. Make it with lower, second, and
third decks. For my part, I am going to bring
a flood of waters on the earth to destroy from
under heaven all flesh in which is the breath
of life. Everything that is on the earth shall
die. But I will establish my covenant with you,
and you shall come into the ark, you, your sons,
your wife, and your sons' wives. Now, let me
leaf over to chapter 7, beginning verse 1. The
Lord then said to Noah, Go into the ark and your
whole family, because I have found you righteous
in this generation. Take with you seven pairs
of every clean animal, a male and its mate, one
pair of every unclean animal, a male and its
mate, and also seven pairs of every kind of bird,
male and female, to keep the various kinds of
life throughout the earth. Seven days from now
I will send rain on the earth for forty days
and forty nights, and I will wipe from the face
of the earth every living creature I have made.
Verse 5. And Noah did all that the Lord had commanded
him. When the rain finally comes, it does not
ask Noah's permission. The waters rise, whether
he's ready or not. And the ark lifts, not because
Noah steered it somewhere, not because it caught
the current just right, but because the waters
themselves carried it. The ark drifts. It floats.
It moves without any input from the man inside.
And here's what I think we need to sit with.
Noah has no idea where he's going. He can't see
the horizon. He can't chart a course. He can't
point the bow towards dry land because there's
no bow to point. There's just a box. A floating
box full of everything that matters, drifting
on a world that has been undone. And that's not
a flaw in the design. That is the design. So
here is where we would lean in. The question
isn't what can we learn from Noah's obedience
or his patience. The question is bigger than
that. Questions should slow us down, make us
set our coffee cups on the table, sit back in
our chairs. Why does God keep designing rescue
without giving us the wheel? Because once you
see it in the ark, you see it everywhere. Let
me show you what I'm talking about with some
examples from the Bible. The Exodus, the movement
from Egypt to... Towards the promised land, God
leads Israel out of Egypt with a pillar of cloud
by day and fire by night. And what is Israel's
job? To follow. Not to navigate. Not to scout
ahead and choose the best route. To follow. The
pillar moves, you move. The pillar stops, you
stop. You don't get to vote on its direction.
The wilderness. Forty years of manna bred from
heaven, but only enough for today. You can't
stockpile it. You can't steer your way towards
security by hoarding it. You wake up tomorrow
and trust it again. Or you don't. Jeremiah's
potter. The clay on the wheel doesn't get to
suggest its shape. It submits to the shaping
hands, or it cracks. Even... Jesus, the Son,
can do nothing by himself. He can only do what
he sees the Father doing, the Word made flesh
and still no rudder, still following, still trusting
the current. The rudder's absence isn't a lesson
about patience. It's a design feature of how
God saves. And here's where this should start
to press on us just a little bit, okay? We spend
an enormous, enormous amount of energy trying
to install rudders on arcs that God built without
them. And we call it wisdom. Pardon me, we call
it stewardship. We call it doing our part. We
call it being responsible adults who don't just
sit around waiting for the miracle. And there's
something to be said for that. Scripture doesn't
call us to passivity. Noah did build the ark.
He didn't just pray and hope the ark would appear.
But here's the distinction the text is making.
God is exacting about his instructions. God is
silent about direction. God cares very much about
how Noah obeys. God does not give Noah any control
over where that obedience ends up leading. And
we hate that. We want faith to come with a steering
wheel. We want our prayers to function like a
compass. Pardon. We want our obedience to purchase
at least a little bit of control over the outcome.
Build the thing right. You should at least get
to drive it. That's the deal we want to make.
But the ark doesn't have a rudder. And maybe
the frustration you're carrying right now, the
confusion, the sense of drifting, desperate wish
you could just see where this is headed, maybe
that's not a sign something's wrong. Maybe that's
a sign you're doing exactly what the blueprints
say to do. Inside a vessel God designed to float,
not to steer. So let's stay with the text for
a moment because I think the details here actually
deepen this. God tells Noah, this is cool to
me, I think, but I'm a nerd about it. God tells
Noah to cover the ark inside and out with pitch,
par. The Hebrew word is kafar. And what's interesting
is kafar is very close to the same word that
becomes the word atonement. The Hebrew roots
of those words are the same one. The covering.
That waterproofs the ark is almost exactly the
same word for the covering that reconciles sin.
The ark is atoned before anyone ever gets on
board. Grace seals it shut before the rain ever
starts. Another detail I think is super interesting,
the window. One window, all ark. It's one cubit
by one cubit. And this is very deep and wide.
We were talking about earlier, but right. Imagine
18 inches, 18 inches, 300 cubits long. This is
all you got. And the window is pointing upward,
not towards the horizon. So what that means,
you can see up. You can see towards heaven. You
cannot see where you're going. The architecture
of the ark limits your vision in one direction,
the only one that counts. And then there is a
line that stops me every time I read this section.
And the Lord shut him in. Genesis 7, 16. Noah
doesn't close the door by himself. He doesn't
get to decide when the grace window closes. He
builds, God seals, he obeys, God completes. The
salvation isn't finished until God shuts the
door from the outside. And then, after the waters
rise and the world drowns and the ark floats
for what must have felt like forever, there's
this. But then God remembered Noah. Not Noah
remembered God. Not Noah finally figured it out.
Not Noah navigated his way to safety. God remembered
Noah. Grace moves first, always. The ark lands
on Ararat, not because Noah had aimed for it.
Because that's where the waters had carried him.
That's where God's remembering set him down.
The destination was never Noah's to choose. So
here's where this hopeful hope comes home. Here's
where the text stops being ancient and starts
being Wednesday night. Some of us are exhausted
right now. Not because you've been disobedient,
but because you've been trying to steer something
God never gave you a rudder for. You built what
you were asked to build, a marriage, personal
ministry, a habit of faithfulness, a life shaped
by showing up when you didn't feel like it. You
did the craftsmanship obedience. You measured
and you cut and you coded the whole thing in
pitch. And now you're floating. And you can't
see where you're going. There's something the
text tells us that we need to hear. Grace floats.
It doesn't steer. It carries. It holds. It drifts
towards destinations we didn't choose. couldn't
have found on our own. And floating feels like
failure to people who are used to steering the
boat. But maybe the hardest obedience isn't in
the building. Maybe the hardest obedience is
staying inside the thing you built and trusting
the waters to take you where they will. Not rushing,
not jumping ship, not tearing holes in the hole,
just to feel useful. Just staying, floating,
trusting that God remembers even when you can't
see dry land. Even when the window only shows
sky. Even when you've been on the water so long,
you have forgot what solid ground even felt like.
The ark. was meant to be more than anything,
friends, sufficient. And God doesn't ask Noah
to guide the future. God asks Noah to survive
it. That's not small faith. That's a whole testimony.
So, before we go, one question. This isn't something
you answer out loud. This you need to answer
in your heart before you ever begin. Saying it
out loud, what rudder have you been reaching
for in your life that God never installed? And
go from this place knowing that if you're floating,
you're not failing. And if you can't see where
you're headed, you're in good biblical company.
If all you can do is stay inside the thing God
keeps you inside of, and trust him with the destination,
that might be the truest obedience you have to
offer. The ark doesn't need a rudder, and it
never did. It needs patience and presence and
a God who remembers. And that God who was fateful
in the chaos once is still fateful now. So may
the waters carry you where you need to go. May
you find the courage to let go of wheels that
were never installed. And may grace, stubborn,
drifting, unhurried grace, bring you to wherever
you call home. Amen. Amen. Thanks, guys. Hey,
before you go, let's just sit with what we've
heard. Some of you are floating right now, not
because you're careless, not because you've failed,
but because you've been faithful. And faithfulness
doesn't always come with direction. You built
what God asked you to build. You showed up. You
measured twice. You sealed the seams. And now
the waters are carrying you somewhere you didn't
choose and can't yet see. And if that unsettled
you a little bit, that's okay. Scripture is allowed
to do that. Conviction doesn't always arrive
at correction. Sometimes it arrives as relief.
The relief of realizing you don't have to install
a rudder God never designed. And if something
tonight stirred in you, if a line landed, if
a thought surprised you, a scripture maybe even
opened up in a new way you'd never seen it before.
Consider tossing a like in the offering plate
the way we used to pass it down the row. No pressure,
just presence. And if you want to stay with us,
walk into the new year as a part of this little
congregation, you're welcome to tithe your subscribe.
Not because we need numbers, but because belonging
matters. However you came in tonight, may you
leave. Knowing this, grace holds, God remembers,
and you are not alone on the water. As always,
be blessed.