YOU MAY HAVE TO LEAVE
Genesis 7:1-10

A sermon given by the Rev. Richard H. Taylor
February 20, 2005 / Second Sunday in Lent

There are few Bible stories that make it into the cartoon section of the newspaper as much as Noah and the Ark. Think of all the drawings you have seen: of people talking to Noah as he is building the Ark, animals talking to each other as they are boarding the Ark, Noah - somewhat seasick - wondering what to do as he is sailing on the Ark.

This is one of the best know of Bible stories. And it is full of messages: perseverance in time of trouble, God's love for animals and creation, the rainbow of hope at the end of a time of despair. We may concentrate so much on these obvious lessons that we miss others that may be as significant.

Take, for instance, the idea that Noah might actually be an example for us in our own spiritual journey. Scripture tells us that "Noah found favor in the sight of the Lord." It seems to me that's a nice thing. I'd like to find favor in the sight of the Lord. So Noah might be an example to us. But why did Noah find favor? What was there about Noah that God liked? What do we know about Noah before the Ark?

The text tells us that the things that were concerning God before Noah built the Ark were wickedness, evil, corruption, and violence. Particularly violence, it is the only cause mentioned twice. Violence is an abomination to the Lord. So we can conclude that Noah must have been a person who rejected corruption and violence.

What else do we know about Noah? Well, we can assume that he had some carpentry skills. He gets all these instructions on how to build the Ark, measure it, build it, put pitch on it. In all of these areas Noah was talented. He worked with wood, and tools, and measurements.

But more, we can assume that Noah was a lover of animals. He not only was going to be called upon to take care of every kind of animal, live with them; but he was also called to recruit them, find them, be able to distinguish the male and female among them, and urge them, encourage them, lead them on to the Ark.

So what does this tell us? Noah was a person who knew the lion's den, the lair of the tiger, the hole of the ground hog. Noah had walked quietly through the woods. He knew the trees favored by the monkey, and those of the squirrel. He had stood still enough to watch the deer graze, or the rabbits come out and play and jump. He had walked into the swampy lands. He knew intimately the turtle and the frog. He knew all the lands surrounding him: forest, and swamp and plain; caves, and nests, and places of habitation. He knew where to find each bird, each animal, each reptile. He knew the lands that sustained them, the earth that fed them. He loved the land. He was immersed in the land. For generations he had absorbed the land, this place. And God found favor in him. And his chief calling, the reason we remember him, the call where God drew him to a place to save humanity and creation was in the call to leave: To leave the land. To abandon the land. To take one last look at that which he loved most, and sail away from it. To let the storm winds and the flood waters move him somewhere else, forever.

And so, if you find favor with God, you may have to move. True, the story says that God has promised that there will be no more floods to totally destroy the Earth, but that does not end the fact that we may have to leave.

Now that may seem like an enjoyable concept if we are a teenager contemplating going on to college. And it may seem like a joyful prospect to those of us looking for housing - we may have to leave the shelter to get to real housing. Leaving may be enjoyable. And that is great. That is wonderful!

But what I want to stress here is that Noah didn't merely have to leave. What is of more significance is that he had to leave that which he loved. He loved the plains where the gazelle ran. He had to leave. He loved the forest trees with their cob webs and caterpillars. He had to leave. He loved the swamps where the insects buzzed, and the mud holes where the pigs played games. He had to leave. In life we may have to leave that which we love. And that is a message to a person who has found favor with God. You may be the most wonderful Christian ever, and you may still have to leave that which you love.

I don't mean to make you feel bad. But in this Lenten time, I need to warn you, challenge you, encounter you, call forth your attention: wilderness journeys may be in your future. Leaving something you love may be part of where you are bound. It may be that some of us will lose our job. It may be that some of us may have our mortgage foreclosed on us. It may be that some fire, or storm, or event, may require that our neighborhood be no longer inhabited. Leaving could be on our journey plans.

But I want to talk also about our spiritual journeys. We may have to leave a cherished belief. Some of us grow up with strong ideas and beliefs, moral principals. We live by them like they were rigid iron-clad rules. Following them may even produce good things in our lives. We may have a heartfelt sense that because we were committed to a certain idea wonderful things happened to us. Then - in the wisdom of old age - we may find out that we were wrong all along. That idea that hard work always leads to success, or that we can work to secure our own health may be wrong. They may have done us good things along the way, but they are still wrong. Then can we leave that idea in the dust? Can we climb out of our certainty into a less clear, more mysterious, less organized world? Can we leave old securities behind and journey into the strange land of uncertainty and danger? And is this what God provides to those whom God loves?

And we may have to leave our sense of ourselves. I know many people who have seen the indignities that sometimes befall people in nursing homes: Incontinent, partially naked in front of strangers, unable to feed oneself. And I have had people say to me, "that will never happen to me. I will kill myself before that happens." But we don't have control. We may have a stroke and there we are. Not only are we where we imagined we never would be, we no longer even have the skill to kill our self. We have had to leave behind all things that we thought made us dignified. Can we still then have a dignity within, in spite of our exterior reality? We may have to leave.

And these are only the beginnings.

I remember a teenager in one of my former churches. His family was had abused him psychologically for years. I wondered how he survived. His parents had practically no insight to see what they were doing to their son. They ordered me to speak to their son, to order him to conform to their distorted view of reality. I did speak to him. And I told him that eventually I hoped he would find some way to love his family, and even help them. But what I really told him was that he had to find some safe way to leave home as soon as possible.

And I have said the same thing to battered spouses that felt mercilessly bound to their marriage bonds. We may have to leave.

What, of course, the story of Noah tells us is that leaving may turn out to be a blessing, and at the end we may find a rainbow. But it doesn't feel that way at the start of the journey. It may be hard, and difficult, and strange, but it may be what we have to do.

Now it may be that the world will never again be destroyed by a flood. But parts of it will be. Sumatra and Sri Lanka remind us that there are real physical floods.

But we are also living in a time of psychological floods, and political floods, and floods of violence. Storms are raging. Waves are breaking. Caves we have hidden in, or trees that we have climbed may be safe no longer. We are living in a time of dramatic world reorientation, that which we cherish is being washed away. Institutions we have cherished, neighborhoods we have lived in, memories that we have valued, are being pushed from their foundations. We may have to leave. Can we believe that as we ride the torrent of the storm that there is a rainbow at the other end? I hope so. But when we first have to leave, it may not seem that way.

But pay attention to the floods around us. Even if you feel secure and think that you are well grounded and well rooted where you are, pay attention to the floods around us. Look at the endangered species clinging to the Ark of life as the flood of global warming and climate change threatens their very existence. Look at the poor and the homeless, washed away from their last memory of home, confined to a smelly and insecure place wondering if they will ever land in a safe harbor again. Look at the individuals who stand crying to get on to the Ark of life, who have had their lives washed away by alcohol, drugs, violence, abusive family members, insufficient food, the lack of a proper education, asking merely for a passage way to an unseen future, any future, any place where the Ark might settle.

They all already know that they have to leave. They already know the storm. But if you can at least believe that you may have to leave, you can maybe better understand their predicament. If you can at least see and identify the storms of human existence, you may better be able to find the hurting, the suffering, like Noah found the lion cub or the frightened lost lamb. If you understand that the world is anything but secure you may learn some compassion. If you can believe that you may have to leave, you may be able to better walk with those who have already left, those who are already washed away.

And so our knowledge of the storm may be the rainbow for someone else. Our concern for those in danger may be what builds Arks in our current world. And in fact then, this story may be God's instruction on how to live in a wilderness and dangerous time, and rainbows will befall only those who have learned that they may have to leave.

Amen.