Living in the Age of the Flood
I often think that we live in the age of the flood: a collapse of public morality, leadership tainted by personal greed, hatred and indifference, a descent toward authoritarianism, another horror in each day’s news. The waters seem to be rising all around us.
But this year, I find myself thinking especially of the period just before the flood. The Torah tells us, “And the Lord saw that the wickedness of humankind was great in the earth, and that all of the thoughts of the human heart were continually evil.” (Genesis 6:5) “And the earth became corrupt before God; the earth was filled with lawlessness. And God saw how corrupt the earth was, for all flesh had corrupted its ways on earth.” (Genesis 6:11-12)
Pause for a moment and take in these extraordinary descriptions. What would it have been like to live in such an unremittingly evil time and place?
The text tells us that “Noah found favor in God’s eyes” and that “Noah was a righteous man, blameless in his age; Noah walked with God.” (Genesis 6:8-9)
What kind of person “finds favor with God” in the midst of an utterly degraded, morally corrupt society? The Torah, characteristically, is terse and raises as many questions as it answers.
The traditional commentators have a great deal to say about the ambiguous description of Noah as righteous and blameless, or “tamim,” meaning whole, in his time. The commentaries ask whether the phrase “in his time” is added as a compliment or as a criticism. Does the Torah tell us that precisely in a hate-filled and unethical society, it is especially meritorious to emerge as a person with good character, since there are few models of righteousness to associate with or emulate? Or does it mean that Noah was only righteous in his own context, more honorable than his peers (though that’s not saying much), whereas in a more virtuous context he would not have stood out?
The comparison is often made between Noah and Abraham, where the same word, “tamim,” also appears. Of Noah, it is said that he “walked with God.” By contrast, God says to Abraham, “Walk before me and be tamim – whole.” (Genesis 17:1) Noah walked beside God, so that God could observe and direct him, while God encouraged Abraham to walk ahead and do godly work on his own.
The comparison with Abraham makes Noah look less noble. When God told Abraham that God planned to destroy the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah, of which it is said, “The outcry against Sodom and Gomorrah is great and their sin is grievous” (Genesis 18:20), Abraham famously entered into an extended debate with God, arguing that God would violate God’s own values of justice if God destroyed the cities, which might possibly contain a few good people.
Where were Noah’s words of protest after God told Noah that God was about to destroy the world (Genesis 6:13)? Why did Noah not argue with God, as Abraham later would? Why did Noah not look beyond the immediate circle of his family, who would be saved in the ark, and warn others to change their ways in order to change the terrible decree? Did Noah lack the moral capacity to understand the horror that was about to unfold? Did he lack the confidence to speak up to God? Was he just too frightened to do anything other than exactly what he was told?
On the other hand, maybe God appreciated Noah’s ability to maintain even basic decency in the midst of a depraved time, during which everyone was impacted by the malevolent energies of society. Maybe just to be a mensch, without any great moral or relational gifts, was enough to be called “tzadik,” or righteous, in that time.
What does all of this say for our time? How do we practice a high standard of caring, justice and wisdom when our leaders regularly spew dehumanizing rhetoric toward entire categories of people? How do we take time to remember who we are and who we aspire to be when the world around us is full of chaos and outright wickedness?
Though we live in a time that sometimes feels like catastrophe is near, aspiring to Noah’s practice is insufficient. It is not enough to simply do what we are told, caring for our own families and otherwise keeping our heads down. We must reach for the standard of Abraham. We must practice radical hospitality, which Abraham was known for, and offer love and fair-mindedness to all the people we encounter. We must stand together with people we perceive to be like us and with a far broader circle, working together to advance the collective ideals of equality and human dignity. We must insist on our own safety and also on the safety of all people. We must push back against a government that seems set on destroying the values of American democracy.
I don’t expect that I or anyone I know will someday be called a tzadik for our work in this time. But we must anticipate that someday our children and grandchildren will ask us what we did to work for a kinder and more just society. We must live in such a way that we will know how to answer.
Adapted from the original version of this column, posted in J Weekly,
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