GOD RAINED RISK

Creation was never safe. It wasn’t meant to be. In the moment God spoke the cosmos into being, He did not build a cage—He opened a field. A world teeming with choice, consequence, and the staggering freedom to fall. The rain that first nourished the garden would later drown the world, not as a contradiction, but as a continuity: risk was always the cost of reality.

To give life is to risk loss. To give law is to risk defiance. To give love is to risk betrayal. And yet, God gave. He gave breath to the clay knowing it would curse Him. He gave law to a people who would break it. He gave covenants that would be tested by idolatry, injustice, and indifference. The rain, when it came in Noah’s day, was not an interruption—it was an acceleration. A divine acknowledgment that risk, left unattended, hardens into ruin.

The flood was not random wrath—it was the logical consequence of unchecked corruption. Genesis tells us the earth was “filled with violence.” That phrase isn't just a moral failing—it’s a mathematical one. A tipping point, when the balance of creation can no longer absorb the weight of human wickedness. When God rains judgment, it is not arbitrary. It is arithmetic.

But even in destruction, the triad holds: Risk, Ruin, Renewal.
God risked a world with freedom. That world chose ruin. And from that ruin, a remnant was carried forward—not because they were perfect, but because they listened. The ark floated not on certainty, but on trust.

The rainbow is not a symbol of safety. It’s a covenant born from catastrophe. It says: I will risk again. That divine willingness to risk another try, another age, another people—despite the record of failure—is itself the miracle.

Today, we still live in the logic of that risk. Every promise, every prophecy, every path to redemption is framed in this tension: God will not coerce love, nor will He abandon justice. The risk continues because the relationship continues.

To follow God is not to be safe. It is to be willing to step into storms He allows, to build arks when skies are clear, to trust in a logic that binds risk to grace. He rained risk, and He still does. Because anything truly alive must choose its way home.