Chuck Larsen

When we study the matriarchs of the Bible, one thing becomes clear—they were sharp, resourceful, and sometimes a little sneaky. Sarah, for example, could have taught a master class in eavesdropping. She always seemed to be nearby when Abraham was talking to God, and she even laughed at His promise of a son. Then, deciding to “help” God keep His word, she arranged for Abraham to have a child with her maid, Hagar. That plan backfired spectacularly, creating family tension that still echoes through history. Rebekah, following in her mother-in-law’s footsteps, had equally good hearing and a better imagination. When Isaac called Esau to receive the family blessing, Rebekah listened in, cooked up a plan, and sent Jacob in disguise to steal it. It worked—but it also fractured the family. This was not exactly what God meant when He designed marriage and home life. Apparently, “hearing” runs in the family, but listening to God does not always come naturally.

The stories of Abraham’s clan read like a case study in family dysfunction. There are lies, tricks, favoritism, and lots of finger-pointing. Isaac repeated his father’s deception by calling his wife his sister to save his own skin. Rebekah learned manipulation from her brother Laban, who later became the gold medalist in deceit. It really is “in the blood.” That same thread runs through all of humanity—from Eden to the present day. We are born with a knack for self-preservation and a talent for twisting truth. Families today are not that different. We compete when we should complement, criticize when we should encourage, and cover up instead of confessing. Yet God still works through our mess. He uses flawed families to accomplish perfect purposes. As Paul wrote, “Where sin increased, grace abounded all the more” (Romans 5:20). There is hope even for households that could use a little less scheming and a lot more listening.

That hope finds its fulfillment in Jesus, whose bloodline includes all these imperfect people. Matthew’s genealogy makes no attempt to hide them—Sarah, Rebekah, and even their descendants appear right there in the family tree of the Messiah. Through Jesus, the curse in our blood is replaced by cleansing blood. “In Him we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of sins” (Ephesians 1:7). God was not ashamed to be called the God of Isaac, and He is not ashamed to be called ours. He redeems our family failures, rewrites our stories, and reminds us that grace, like sin, runs in the blood—but His runs deeper.

Every year I get the itch to read through the entire Bible. I usually start with great enthusiasm, a couple cups of coffee, and a neatly printed schedule. I cannot say I always finish, but I do make it through Genesis with gusto. There is something refreshing about beginning again at the beginning. The opening verse, “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth,” is as simple as it is profound. It silences a thousand competing theories in just ten words. Genesis 1:1 does not argue for God’s existence—it assumes it. It does not invite debate; it declares reality. God stands apart from creation as an artist from his painting—deeply involved but never confined to His work. This single verse sets the foundation for all Christian belief: God exists, God acts, and everything that is owes its being to Him. Once you believe that, your entire worldview takes shape.

D. A. Carson once said that Genesis 1 rules out nearly every false philosophy in a single stroke. Pantheism is ruled out because God is separate from His creation. Dualism is ruled out because everything He made was good. Reductionism is ruled out because humans—male and female—are uniquely made in His image. Even the idea of an impersonal God is ruled out because He speaks. “Let there be light” is the first recorded sentence in history, and it came from the mouth of God Himself. Once you accept that the Creator speaks, everything changes. Life has meaning, morality has a standard, and humanity has dignity. Francis Schaeffer famously wrote, “He is there, and He is not silent.” In other words, God is not an abstract concept but a personal being who communicates. The Bible, then, is not an ancient relic—it is the voice of the living God who still says, “Let there be light” in darkened hearts.

The New Testament affirms this beginning and completes it in Christ. John echoes Genesis when he writes, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God” (John 1:1). The Creator who spoke the universe into being stepped into His own creation as Jesus Christ. Paul writes, “For by Him all things were created” (Colossians 1:16). The God who said, “Let there be light,” now shines “in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Christ” (2 Corinthians 4:6). The same voice that called galaxies into existence now calls us to believe. The Creator has spoken—and His Word became flesh.

The Bible begins with the majestic line, “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.” Max Lucado points out that it does not say God made, built, or mass-produced the universe—He created it. Creating, Lucado notes, is something deeper than constructing. It involves the heart and the soul. I might argue that building also requires intellect and imagination, but Max’s point stands—creation is a profoundly personal act. When God created the world, He did not assemble it like furniture from a celestial hardware store; He poured Himself into it. But then, in a more intimate stroke of genius, God created humanity “in His own image.” Both male and female reflect His likeness. Creation, in this sense, is not mechanical—it is artistic. Just as a painting reflects its artist, or a melody reveals its composer, we bear traces of the divine artist who crafted us. As Paul wrote in Ephesians 2:10, “For we are God’s masterpiece.”

That word masterpiece carries a certain weight. It is easy to see the Grand Canyon or a newborn baby as divine art, but when we look in the mirror, it is harder to feel like a Michelangelo. We tend to focus on the cracks, the fading colors, and the places where life’s hammer seems to have struck too hard. Yet Paul’s point is that our value as masterpieces does not depend on our appearance, age, achievements, or even our moral record. Our worth comes from the Artist who made us. A painting does not earn its beauty—it receives it from the painter’s hand. God created us for good works, but that does not mean we perform them to prove our worth. It means we are expressions of His goodness, designed to reflect His character. As one writer observed, “A sculpture does not go to church or read its own biography—it simply displays the beauty of its creator.”

Through Jesus Christ, the divine Artist restores His damaged masterpieces. Sin may have marred the canvas, but grace repaints it with new color and light. Paul reminds us, “If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation” (2 Corinthians 5:17). We are God’s artwork, renewed by His own blood, framed by His love, and destined for His glory. When we live in that truth, we display His craftsmanship to the world. The Creator’s signature—written not in paint, but in grace—marks every believer: “You are my masterpiece.”

Cain’s story is a study in divine grace. From beginning to end, his life is streaked with it like sunlight through storm clouds. Even though his offering was inferior, God did not abandon him. That is grace. God spoke to Cain gently, counseling him as a father might a frustrated son: “Why are you angry? If you do well, will you not be accepted?” That is grace. When Cain’s jealousy erupted into murder, God confronted him—not to crush him, but to call him to repentance. That is grace again. And even after Cain refused to repent, God still placed a mark upon him, protecting him from vengeance. Now that is amazing grace. Every turn of the story reveals a patient, merciful God who was far more interested in restoration than retribution. Cain walked away from the Lord, but he could not walk beyond the reach of God’s grace.

What exactly was this mysterious mark? That question has kept theologians, artists, and comedians busy for centuries. Some claim it was a tattoo, which would make Cain the world’s first man with body art. Others imagine a peculiar hairstyle—a celestial bad hair day, perhaps. There are even ancient legends that describe his face being blackened by hail, a notion that later took on some regrettably racist interpretations. One rabbi suggested that God gave Cain a guard dog. Personally, I rather like that image—a hulking Doberman named “Mercy,” trotting faithfully beside the world’s first fugitive. Renaissance painters even imagined a horn sprouting from Cain’s head, which sounds more like a Halloween costume than divine protection. The truth is, no one knows what the mark looked like. What we do know is what it meant: God would not permit vengeance to destroy the very man who had destroyed his brother. In other words, grace marked Cain long before judgment ever found him.

That same grace has found us through Jesus Christ. Like Cain, we are guilty, and yet we are offered protection from the penalty of our sin. Paul wrote, “Where sin increased, grace abounded all the more” (Romans 5:20). At Calvary, God placed a different kind of mark—not on a murderer, but on His own Son. The cross became the sign of our safety, declaring that mercy triumphs over judgment. Horatius Bonar captured it perfectly: “Thy Grace alone, O God, to me can pardon speak.” Cain bore a mark that shielded him from wrath; we bear a Savior who removes it entirely.

Genesis chapter five reads like a drumbeat of mortality. It lists ten generations of Adam’s descendants, each one ending with the same somber refrain: “And he died.” The roll call of the dead continues until we almost stop noticing. Methuselah, the record holder, lived 969 years, but even he could not escape the final line. It is as if the writer wanted us to feel the weight of death’s inevitability. Yet in the middle of this graveyard of names, one stands out like a candle in a dark room—Enoch. His obituary reads differently: “Enoch walked with God, and he was not, for God took him.” There is no mention of death, only divine companionship. While the others faded from the earth, Enoch simply stepped into eternity. He lived 365 years—a “year of years,” if you like—and then went home early. As they say, “only the good die young,” though in this case, the good did not die at all.

We might think Enoch was shortchanged, missing out on the longevity his ancestors enjoyed. But the text makes it clear that being “taken by God” was a blessing, not a loss. Death is inevitable, but for those who walk with God, it is not final. Someone once described life this way: “Tender teens, teachable twenties, tireless thirties, fiery forties, forceful fifties, serious sixties, sacred seventies, aching eighties, shortening breath, death, the sod, God.” However many decades we get, the destination is the same. The Hebrew writer reminds us, “It is appointed unto man once to die, but after this the judgment” (Hebrews 9:27). The key question, then, is not how long we live but how we walk. Enoch’s secret was simple: he walked with God—step by step, day by day. That is not a bad life plan. We could all use a little less running and a little more walking with God.

Paul took that same theme and gave it a New Testament twist. “And he died for all,” Paul wrote, “that those who live should no longer live for themselves but for him who died for them and was raised again” (2 Corinthians 5:15). Jesus broke the “and he died” cycle once and for all. Charles Simeon once read an epitaph that captured it perfectly: “When from the dust of death I rise… this shall be all my plea—Jesus hath lived and died for me.” In Christ, death no longer gets the last line. For those who walk with Him, it now reads: “And he lived—forever.”

Genesis chapter six introduces us to one of the strangest and most debated passages in the entire Bible—the story of the Nephilim. The text tells us, “The Nephilim were on the earth in those days—and also afterward—when the sons of God went to the daughters of humans and had children by them. They were the heroes of old, men of renown.” Who exactly were these mysterious “sons of God”? Scholars have wrestled with that question for centuries, and so have I. My opinion—subject to heavenly correction—is that they were fallen angels. Both Peter and Jude mention angels who abandoned their proper domain during the time of Noah. But since angels are spirit beings and cannot procreate, I side with Kent Hughes, who described them as “fallen angels commandeering the souls of men,” or, as we might say today, “demon-possessed men marrying the daughters of other men.” In other words, the world had become spiritually corrupted and morally confused. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?

The chapter goes on to describe the two conditions that led to God’s judgment: sexual perversion and violence. It began with Lamech, the first bigamist, who proudly sang a song about killing a young man. That chorus has been replayed ever since in different keys—sex and violence, violence and sex. Both are glamorized in modern culture just as they were in the days of Noah. I think of boxer Mike Tyson, who once bragged before a fight that he would kill his opponent—hardly sportsmanlike conduct—and then later bit off Evander Holyfield’s ear. If the evening news ever depresses you, it is because the same story still runs: human sin run wild. Verse five says, “The Lord saw how great the wickedness of the human race had become… and His heart was filled with pain.” It is a heartbreaking line. God is not indifferent to our corruption; He grieves over it.

The good news is that God’s grief leads to grace. In the midst of judgment, “Noah found favor in the eyes of the Lord.” The New Testament reminds us that Jesus compared His own generation to Noah’s: “As it was in the days of Noah, so it will be at the coming of the Son of Man” (Matthew 24:37). The world’s obsession with moral chaos continues, but so does God’s offer of rescue. As Noah entered the ark to escape the flood, we enter Christ to escape judgment. Peter wrote, “This water symbolizes baptism that now saves you also… through the resurrection of Jesus Christ” (1 Peter 3:21). When giants walk the earth again and evil fills the air, faith still floats—and grace still reigns.

Genesis chapter seven launches us into one of the Bible’s most dramatic stories—the flood of Noah. Over the centuries, debates have swirled like the waters themselves. Was it global or local? Historical or mythical? One online article summarized it bluntly: “Since the late eighteenth century, the historicity of the Flood has come under constant attack and is now rejected as a fable by most people in Western societies.” Many scholars and preachers have poured gallons of ink trying to prove or disprove it through geology, climatology, or paleontology. I have read my share of those arguments, but I confess—I am not smart enough to solve the scientific puzzle. I take Scripture at face value. The New Testament writers treated the flood as real, and Jesus Himself did too. For me, that settles it. I cannot explain all the scientific details, but I can trust the Author of the story. Sometimes faith requires less figuring out and more floating.

The true message of the flood is not about fossils or fault lines—it is about faith. God does not spend time describing weather patterns or topography; He focuses instead on the kind of man He saves. Hebrews 11:7 explains it beautifully: “By faith Noah, being warned by God concerning events as yet unseen, in reverent fear constructed an ark for the saving of his household.” Noah was “certain of what he could not see” (Hebrews 11:1). He did not demand blueprints, barometric data, or geological surveys. He simply believed what God said and acted on it. While others mocked, he built. While the skies were still clear, he trusted. Faith, it turns out, is less about evidence and more about obedience. Noah did not need to understand everything; he just needed to hammer the next plank.

In the same way, Jesus is our ark. The flood of judgment has not vanished—it was redirected. On the cross, God poured out His wrath on His own Son, who bore the deluge in our place. As one writer put it, “At Calvary, God locked His Son out so that He could open the door of heaven for sinners who believe.” When Jesus cried, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Matthew 27:46), He was feeling the full force of that flood. Yet because He was shut out, we are welcomed in. Noah’s ark carried eight souls to safety; Christ’s cross carries all who will believe. It turns out that faith still floats—and it still saves.

The flood narrative takes a beautiful turn when we read that “God remembered Noah.” It is not that God had misplaced the ark somewhere in the vast ocean and suddenly said, “Oh yes, I left Noah out there!” In Scripture, when God “remembers,” it signals that He is about to act according to His promise. God’s remembrance is not recollection—it is restoration. He always proves faithful to those who are faith-filled. The old Gospel hymn captures this so well: “Great is Thy faithfulness, O God, my Father; there is no shadow of turning with Thee.” I sometimes wish modern praise songs had lyrics that could rival those lines. My favorite stanza seems to echo this very passage in Genesis: “Summer and winter, and springtime and harvest, sun, moon, and stars in their courses above, join with all nature in manifold witness to Thy great faithfulness, mercy, and love.” It is as though all creation sings Noah’s song—God keeps His promises, and His mercies are new every morning.

After the floodwaters receded, God not only spared Noah and his family but also blessed them and the earth itself. When Noah built an altar and offered his sacrifice, God “smelled the sweet aroma” and promised never again to destroy all life by flood. He said, “I will never again curse the ground because of man… neither will I ever again strike down every living creature as I have done.” That was more than mercy—it was grace. Then God added what I like to think was His own song: “While the earth remains, seedtime and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night, shall not cease.” It is a divine melody that has played continuously ever since. Every sunrise, every harvest, every rhythm of nature hums the same refrain: God is faithful. You can almost hear the music in your morning coffee—steam rising to heaven like Noah’s sacrifice, a quiet reminder that God remembers still.

In Jesus, that faithfulness reached its highest harmony. Just as God remembered Noah, He remembered us in our storm. Paul wrote, “When the fullness of time had come, God sent forth His Son” (Galatians 4:4). Jesus calmed the ultimate flood—not of water but of sin. His cross became our ark, carrying us safely through judgment into new life. “If we are faithless,” Paul told Timothy, “He remains faithful, for He cannot deny Himself” (2 Timothy 2:13). From the rainbow to the resurrection, the song remains the same: “Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord unto me.”