It’s an old story, and we know it well: God sees wickedness and corruption have spread throughout the world, and human beings are acting in ways that should have been predictable to an all-knowing deity: lying, cheating, stealing, murdering, slandering, smearing political opponents, brutalizing immigrants, dictatorially usurping authority, shutting down the government. You know, the usual. In response, God decides to destroy the world in a great flood, rain falling for 40 days and nights, the whole of humanity drowned in a terrible deluge. 

One man is chosen to survive the flood, because, the Torah tells us, he was “righteous, blameless in his generation, Ish tzadik, tamim haya bedorotav.” Noah—Noach in Hebrew—is chosen to carry the banner of humanity to the next generation. Gathering his family about him and two of each animal (plus seven pairs of each kosher animal so there’s something to eat and something to sacrifice to God if they make it) Noah builds the ark, loads the boat, and goes on not a three-hour cruise, but one long enough to float away every trace of the depravity of humanity. 

Eventually, he sends out first a raven and finally a dove to see if the world is dry enough to land upon. The dove brings back that famous olive branch, the Noah mishpacha (family) disembarks the ark, and life begins again. 

We tend to think of this as a cute tall tale, a big boat and lots of animals and a wonderful rainbow at the end. Actually, though, it’s a kind of horror story, just in time for Halloween: the literal annihilation of all humanity, save one lonely surviving family and just enough species to repopulate the devastated planet. At the conclusion of this horrific destruction, the survivors learn that this is a one-off, a unique singular mass extermination in the name of cleansing the world.    

As it all begins to dry, a great covenant is established, first and most enduring berit in human history. God agrees never again to destroy the earth by flood; unfortunately, we humans don’t agree to the same provision, an oversight we may pay for soon.  But we do agree to abide by certain minimum standards of morality. The famous multi-colored arc, a war bow in the sky, seals the deal. 

After the cataclysm, it is truly a new beginning. In essence, God acknowledges this new world will not be the Garden of Eden anymore, but it can be both physically and morally good and rich.  And we humans have the opportunity to make it so. 

Noah, we are told, was a righteous man in his generation, ish Tzadik… b’dorotav—which doesn’t make him a righteous man in every generation.  The Zohar, greatest text of Jewish Kabbalistic mysticism, explains that when Noah was told about the destruction of all humanity, he complied with God’s command to build the ark and save his family and the animal species.  But, sadly, Noah did not object to the destruction of every other human being—not a peep of protest.  Unlike Abraham or Moses, who argue vigorously with God against similar decrees against smaller numbers of people, Noah simply goes along with the human destruction divinely decreed.  He doesn’t protest.  He doesn’t object.  He doesn’t try to mitigate God’s imminent annihilation. 

That is, Noah is good enough, but not exactly good. Because being good means speaking up against evil.  Being truly good requires that we object to injustice.

Perhaps, for us, Noah sets a low bar that we might be able live up to. If we can’t necessarily succeed in becoming fully righteous for all time, at least we can strive to be righteous in our own turbulent, problematic times. Certainly, Jewish tradition encourages us to do more than just go along with devastating decrees. But even in degraded days we can strive to be at least as good as Noah.

Apparently, what’s required here in Noach is that we try to be the best that we, personally, can be, and seek to do what’s right even when it seems easier, and more popular, to choose not to do so. If we can manage that, and be only as good as Noah, we too might end up saving the world—which now, as then, appears to need a good deal of saving.

But if we can go one step beyond that we might do even more than float out the rough storms all around us. We might rise to become Abraham arguing with God for justice, or Moses defending the Israelites against destruction.

It’s OK to be as righteous as Noah. But isn’t it better to seek to be truly righteous for all time?