The Rocky Mountains stand strong, anchored by rock formations protruding thousands of feet upward. Often the snow-capped summits look like white-haired sages, eager to share their stories from thousands of years of observing both the wonder and terror of nature. Beneath these heavenly pinnacles, blue spruces adorn the slopes accented with the green and golden leaves of the white-barked Aspens dotting the landscape. The glory of God is everywhere present.

 

The wide-open meadows flooded with wildflowers of every color beckon us not to pass by, insisting we stop and linger long enough to take in a brilliance that is exceeded only by the One who fashioned them. On the best days, we are blessed to see some of the wildlife that claims this territory as home – bear and buffalo, deer and elk, bighorn sheep and even a stray coyote or two. They frolic at ease on the vast, handcrafted ranges of their heavenly Creator.

 

By far, however, our favorite scenes are the picturesque mountain streams and rivers that ease along the highway, tumbling and glistening, gently singing a song bidding we come closer so that we might join with them in a moment of solitude and rest.

 

As magical and peaceful as these rivers are, here and there posted signs caution of flash flooding. They remind us that ultimately, though serene and beautiful, these rivers can become wild and unrestrained without warning. We are always aware that at any moment an unseen storm, lurking behind a peak, might suddenly reveal itself as it slips over the pass, bringing with it a deluge of rain. Within minutes such storms can unleash torrents of water raging down the mountainside, overwhelming the streams and riverbeds beneath, transforming the most tranquil canyon into chaos and panic.

 

Amusingly one road sign reads, “In case of flash flooding, seek higher ground.” Gwynne and I always chuckle as we pass by. We’re reminded not only of how quickly these gentle streams might become thundering torrents, but also of how some people apparently need to be reminded to seek safety from flooding by climbing up, not down the mountain.

 

Every time I see this sign I think of Psalm 61: “Hear my cry, O God; listen to my prayer. From the end of the earth I call to you, when my heart is faint. Lead me to the rock that is higher than I.”

 

These words of wisdom come from David, a man intimately familiar with the beauty and unpredictability of life – a man who, through his experience, grasps what it is to frantically scramble upward, trying his best to rise above the raging waters of life. Although his advice of seeking “the rock higher than I” seems self-evident—so obvious as to not even need telling—he knows we can all benefit from hearing it again.

 

That’s the way life is – exquisite and chaotic, wondrous and terrible. In the time it takes to receive a phone call or for the wheels of a car to swerve, a hidden storm may reveal itself, bringing with it devastating floodwaters threatening to sweep us away without warning. Keeping tethered to the “rock higher than I” is wisdom too vital to forget. Ultimately that rock is our only option, the only way of reordering our lives and hanging on till the floodwaters recede.

 

From reading the story of Noah, his family and culture, I come away with two lessons I feel would be difficult to overstate: One, the astonishing faithfulness of Noah in the midst of an entire world that had become overwhelmingly corrupt; and two, the depth of God’s grieving at the realization that it is time for a new creation and just how great a price must be paid in order to accomplish it.

 

The latter point reminds us that new beginnings rarely emerge apart from the broken soil of our pain, sweat and tears. That’s surely the way it must have been in the life of Noah as he toiled, in apparent insanity from his neighbors’ perspective. Year after year he built, until the Ark was complete and the waters burst forth.

 

By looking at some of the time markers in the story of Noah, something notable emerges. In an earlier genealogical section of Genesis, we’re informed that after Noah was five hundred years old he becomes the father of Shem, Ham and Japheth (Genesis 5:32). Reading further, we learn that Noah is six hundred years old when the floodwaters come upon the earth (Genesis 7:6). However, between these two time markers, we hear God saying, “My spirit shall not abide in mortals forever, for they are flesh; their days shall be one hundred twenty years.” This quizzical statement has puzzled readers for generations. Is God limiting the lifespan of humanity from the flood forward to one hundred twenty years? If so this creates serious contradictions for the post-diluvial patriarchs listed in Genesis chapter eleven. According to the text, they all lived well beyond one hundred and twenty years of age.

 

Maybe a better way of understanding this statement is to hear God announcing that he will mercifully withhold his judgment upon humanity for another one hundred and twenty years. This view has gained wide acceptance throughout the history of the church.[1] If this is the meaning, then a startling realization comes to mind: By subtracting one hundred and twenty years from Noah’s age (six hundred when the flood waters come on the earth), we discover that Noah was four hundred and eighty years old when God approaches him with his plan to work through him (and his family) in bringing forth a new creation. This is twenty years before Noah’s first child is born. How intriguing – before the birth of Noah’s children he is already heavily invested in being about the Father’s business on their behalf.

 

As Jesus kneels, submitting to his Gethsemane, he draws on the life of Noah in recovering his own calling before time began (Philippians 2:6ff). Before our birth, before creation, God through Christ was already preparing to deliver all of humanity. And now Jesus is face to face with the execution of this plan – in the form of his own execution. Already the sound of the rising floodwaters can be heard.

 

For Jesus, Noah’s life speaks volumes: on the day Noah receives the command to build the Ark, there isn’t one aspect of his life not suddenly reordered by God’s plan. Even though he was a righteous man and walked blamelessly with God (Genesis 6:9), from that point forward everything Noah did looked toward a coming event that would resemble nothing the world had ever known. Like Noah, Jesus knows that a new creation is at hand.

One thing certain about life is that every one of us has, is, or will be struck by a flood of epic proportions. Tragedy comes to us all—a time so intense and filled with such prolonged pain and suffering that we will begin to wonder if we would be better off not living at all.

 

We’re not talking of having a bad day at work or dealing with misbehaving children at the zoo. We’re referring to the kind of life-rending devastation that places an indelible mark upon the timelines of our lives. Upheaval of such cataclysmic proportions that everything else is put on hold as life suddenly becomes singular in its focus.

 

In light of this, something odd comes to mind. As we reflect on this account, it occurs to us that there isn’t one word describing to us how Noah feels about the coming deluge. Was he confused or hurt or angry or maybe even scared? Strangely, regarding the emotional state of Noah, the text is silent.

 

Why? Is there something inherent in this story that is so meaningful to God that should we hear Noah’s perspective at all it would be at the risk of – no pun intended – drowning out the voice of God? Is there something here that God desires we not overlook?

 

At first glance the announcement of the flood comes to us as a factual, dispassionate account of a seemingly insensitive and possibly angry God who callously instructs his servant Noah on how to survive an earth-shattering catastrophe. The text has God saying, “I have determined to make an end of all flesh… now I am going to destroy them along with the earth… make yourself an Ark… for my part, I am going to bring a flood of waters on the earth to destroy all flesh in which is the breath of life” (Genesis 6:13, 14, 17). What’s the message God wants us to hear as this account is presented to us?

 

In one, subtle place the answer becomes known: “The Lord saw that the wickedness of humankind was great in the earth, and that every inclination of the thoughts of their hearts was only evil continually… and it grieved him to his heart” (Genesis 6:5-6).

 

There it is, the core emotional response of God: grief and a broken heart.

 

Regardless of how faithful or righteous we are, life is often not what we would like it to be. We see a world flooded with violence and a society awash in moral malaise. On those days our broken hearts grieve too, but they never grieve alone. The voice of God affirms to us that he understands those periods when our lives meet with more than rainy days and storms.

 

At the very outset, Noah’s story bids that we hear from the broken, grieving heart of God. No other words appear, and none are spoken because no other thoughts matter. If we miss what is taking place in the heart of God, we risk missing who God is.

 

The first time I heard Steve speak I knew there was something different about him. My wife and I were attending the dedication of a new ministry facility here in Colorado Springs. As with all dedications of this sort, time was set aside for various church leaders to address the attendees. There were several people who spoke that day – some worked for the ministry, some were local influential pastors. A nationally known personality was even on hand to deliver the keynote address.

 

As I listened, it occurred to me that I was hearing a familiar cadence—like when someone is trying to get excited about something they know they’re supposed to be energized about, but aren’t. Frankly, there’s nothing quite as patronizing as sitting through a litany of messages propelled by forced enthusiasm. To me the entire event was coming off flat and stale, like a bottle of soda that sat in the fridge for too long. There was a certain flavor to it, but all the fizzle was gone.

 

Fortunately, there was one exception. Steve was a local pastor of a community church known for its good-hearted people. When he began to speak the difference was immediately palpable. He was genuine and authentic and his message stood in stark contrast to what I was hearing from the others. He spoke with the same voice he would use if we met in a grocery store line or chatted over a latte at the local coffee shop. He was relaxed but engaging; confident, yet humble. Also, I noticed that his speech had a slight slur to it and that one side of his face seemed to have a minor paralysis that made the way he said “Jesus” somehow sound more real, like he really knew the man personally through the struggles of his own life. As his message progressed, it was evident that Steve identified more with the Suffering Servant than the Broadway Jesus we so often hear about at grand openings.

 

While the other presenters spoke triumphantly of how God would surely use this ministry to conquer every known entity in the galaxy, Steve’s tone was less vitriolic and more vulnerable; less ardent and more willing to accept what God had in store for this ministry – even if it meant failure in the eyes of the world. His tone was triumphant but not triumphalistic.

 

Instead of reaching for highly charged texts about holding swords in one hand and building-blocks in the other—texts that stir up visions of culture wars between true believers and the unwashed heathen—Steve spoke of the battles that rage within. He talked of pain and struggle and the real challenges of just getting along in life. He shared how folks most needed God and the witness of his love, and he implored us to embrace those who were hurting and in need of a human touch, rather than directing them to another building more known for the beauty of its brick and mortar than for the warmth of those who gathered within.

 

Hearing this message prompted me to visit Steve’s church fellowship and thank him for the message he gave that day. I’m glad that I did, because it was the beginning of a journey that has blessed me at every turn.

 

In our initial conversation, Steve shared with me that he had undergone surgery to correct an inner ear problem, but some unintended nerve damage left him with a slight slur in his speech and some facial paralysis. For many pastors who are more image-conscious than heart-aware, this might have been devastating. But not for Steve: he, like Noah, knew what it was like to survive a flood. Steve’s life, like Noah’s, had been reordered by a great and tragic event.

 

While many people view suffering as an experience to avoid at all costs, those who have endured it – even in deep and cruel ways – often seem to embrace it differently than we might expect, as if it has played a vital role in forging or bringing out attributes that they might never had known otherwise. This strikes me as true regarding Steve. One day I was blessed to sit in his office as he shared his story with me. He graciously granted me the permission to share it with you if I thought, in his words, “some might be blessed by it.”

 

I think some might.

 

I don’t take this permission lightly nor do I share this story without some apprehension. When telling of the pain and suffering endured by others, we’re talking about events that forever shape, scar or impact their lives. There is something sacred about this. Something that says, “Tread lightly because once it’s written others may read over it quickly and flippantly. Then it’s on to the next story, the next chapter, the next point.” When someone’s personal pain becomes public fodder, we run the risk of irreverently minimizing the story and the people. It has changed their life, and it is retold with the hope that it might change ours, too.

 

We approach these sacred accounts much the same as Moses approached the bush that would not burn: with shoes removed and the realization that for a moment, we are permitted to stand on hallowed ground. In this moment, we are granted access into the sacred space of another man’s story and his heart-relationship with God as the tides of life did their best to sweep him away.

 

In 1979 Steve was twenty-eight years old, married and had a wonderful twenty-month old son, Ross. Serving as a youth pastor in his local church, Steve was living out what he believed to be his life’s calling. Every Wednesday afternoon the church staff held their weekly meeting to discuss what needed to be organized, who needed encouragement, and how things were going with each other.

 

One Wednesday, as the meeting ended, Steve and the other pastors sat around the table enjoying a bit of the normal light-hearted ribbing that usually came during these times. In the midst of this the senior pastor was summoned from the room to take a phone call. When he returned, he was visibly shaken; all of the color had drained from his face. He looked ill, as if he were going to vomit.

 

“Steve,” said the senior pastor, “can you come to my office?” Knowing something was seriously wrong, Steve entered, sat down, and braced himself for words a person could never prepare themselves to hear.  “Steve, I just got word that your wife has been killed in a car accident.”

 

In an instant, in the time it takes to utter a sentence, Steve found himself in the greatest deluge of his life. Questions, too many to process, flooded his mind. How? Where? When? Are you sure it was her? Is this really happening? What about Ross? Who will take care of him? What will I do without a wife? Should I call her parents now? Do I go to the hospital? What do I do? God, are you here? Are you with me?

 

Unable to comprehend an event of this magnitude, Steve told me that the only thing he could think to do was to make his way to the sanctuary and, in solitude, try to make sense of what had occurred and what he should do next. As he sat in stunned silence, what he felt, he recalled, was not what he expected to feel. “It was,” he said, “as if evil were mocking me, mocking my faith, mocking my God.” It said, “You lost.”

 

What do we do in times like this? How do we deal with such voices? Who gets the glory? As we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, can we possibly join with the psalmist in affirming that, “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want”? Is it possible to embrace faith when everything in our world has just been swept away in an overwhelming deluge of horrific news?

 

How do we respond?

 

At that moment Steve proclaimed, “No, evil will not get the glory for this. God will get the glory. God has a plan. I don’t have to like it or understand it, but I will trust it!”

 

As he recounted these events, he told me that the only way he can describe what happened next was that “God showed up.” In that instant, the time of his greatest suffering, Steve sensed that God was present and that God alone held the power of life and death. In this affirmation of faith, Steve understood that both he and his wife were, though now in different dimensions, in the same place. They both rested in the faithful, loving arms of God.

 

Steve was able to make a profession of his faith in his Gethsemane because of the many choices he had made before that moment. Prior to the arrival of the floodwaters, Steve had already tethered himself to “the Rock that is higher than I.”

 

The next day Steve’s parents arrived and began helping with all of the excruciating decisions that needed to be made. Any of us who have ever been through this process knows how grateful we are to receive help. The compassionate involvement of others freed Steve from the urgency of the moment so he could turn his attention toward his young son. His main concern was finding help with the important and monumental task of assisting with Ross as Steve continued to put one foot in front of the other.

 

As it usually happens when “God shows up,” it wouldn’t be a concern for long. Within minutes, the phone rang. It was a senior woman from another church fellowship who had recently been widowed. She had heard what had happened and was volunteering to help. Steve said he clearly remembered God impressing upon him, “I know you’re hurting, but you have needs. I’m aware of this, and I’m working on your behalf. I’m not going to let you face this alone.”

 

Steve and the woman agreed that she could live with Steve and Ross rent free in return for helping with Ross while Steve continued working, ministering and trying to heal as he moved through the darkness of his Gethsemane.

 

Steve told how over the next several months, though separated generationally, he and this older woman blessed each other by processing their common grief in having lost a spouse. Sometimes this meant sharing or praying together; sometimes it meant giving each other the space to grieve and the wisdom of not trying to “fix” each other or in any way rush the healing process. Looking back, Steve recalls with amazement and profound gratitude how intimately God was working in the lives of them both as the floodwaters subsided and God lovingly guided their feet back to solid ground.

 

By no means was any of this easy. As with anyone who suffers such trauma, there are many different stages to be worked through, everything from denial to anger. But through it all Steve knew that God was present—teaching, loving, comforting. At one point Steve felt God saying, “You didn’t know you could hurt this bad, did you?” In faith this was received not as some sort of cruel object lesson from God but as a relating of hearts. Steve recognized that God was sharing his heart and his hurt too; that in this process both he and God were forging an even stronger, deeper bond together. As Steve puts it, “When these things happen, we might question the details, but not the character of God.”

 

Steve’s testimony points to a mysterious reality: God is faithful. No matter what, no matter how sudden and devastating the raging waters can be, God is faithful.

 

Over time Steve came to embrace the depth of his hurt and confusion as he employed the pain of his loss to help understand the depth of God’s love. It was a love he would not otherwise have known had things been different – a love that, in turn, could be shared with others. In time God blessed Steve with a wonderful new wife and two more children. Eventually he moved to Colorado Springs to begin a church fellowship that over the past two decades has blessed countless lives. All of this has come about because of a life that, early on, was reordered by a single, simple principle: no matter what the details, God is faithful.

 

Were it not for Gethsemane I’m not sure how I would handle my grief. Throughout the ministry of Jesus I see him struggle. I see his labor and feel a kindred spirit with him as he retreats for prayer and rest as the burden of life seems too great to bear.

 

To some extent we all know these feelings, and because of the story of Jesus we know that he knows them too. From this awareness, we gain strength in our time of need. In Jesus we have a Redeemer who is like us. He has worn our flesh and cried our tears. He has felt the collapsing strain of life and faced the agonies it presents head-on.

 

We can imagine Jesus in Gethsemane, drawing upon the story of Noah as he contemplates his own calling. He recalls Noah’s violent world and recalls God’s pain and brokenness. He hears the voice of evil mocking as it mistakenly believes it has won – death is at hand – a life will be required. 

 

What does evil know of actual victory? What acquaintance does it have with the God who grieves, who wails in agony and sweats drops of blood into the earth? Evil knows brute, coercive power—it is intimate with death and defeat and failure, but not in the embracing and transforming way of the self-emptying God.

 

But the last word of God is not defeat. The last word of God is life and triumph and deliverance, because the last word of God is love. For in this moment, as Jesus lays prostrate before the Father, the Lamb slain before the foundation of the world believes that God will bring him through Gethsemane and set his feet on higher ground. He enters into the greatest power – a power that is known only by relinquishing power.

 

He is coming to see that regardless of the details, God is faithful.

 

As in Noah’s day, in time the floodwaters will subside, deliverance will come and once again he will find his feet on solid ground. The dove of promise that encircles Noah, encircles Jesus, and is the same abiding presence of God upon those of us who walk in Gethsemane’s way. As we embrace the dove of promise on terra firma, the living example of God’s life-sustaining power quietly illuminates as the only option. Once again – once for all time – there is hope for humanity as a new creation springs forth from the old.

 

In the self-sacrifice of Jesus we discover the strength that comes through having all of life reordered and re-centered, by tethering ourselves to God. When we suffer times that bring us more than rainy days and storms, we can join with the psalmist in proclaiming ultimate safety in “the Rock that is higher than I.”