Let’s stop pretending this was ever plausible. There was no global flood. Not six thousand years ago. Not ever. Not one that covered every mountaintop, erased every civilization, and turned Earth into God’s personal kill tank. The Noah myth isn’t divine truth—it’s plagiarized folklore duct-taped to a genocide fantasy and spoon-fed to generations under the label “Children’s Bible Story,” complete with smiling giraffes and rainbows like that makes it less horrific.
The story, as shoved into the book of Genesis, plays out like the fever dream of a vengeful god with control issues. Yahweh, apparently shocked that humans act like humans, decides the best course of action is to erase the entire population—every woman, every child, every farmer, every sparrow, every newborn lamb—because they disappointed him. So he picks one family to save—Noah and crew—and tells them to build a boat the size of a small battleship. Very specific instructions, mind you. God doesn’t have time to cure disease or fix famine, but he’s got blueprints for a floating barn?
Then there’s the animal roundup. Somehow, Noah manages to gather two of every unclean and seven of every clean animal from every corner of the planet, including species that didn’t even exist in that region, and none of them eat each other or die of shock or disease. Koalas stroll in from Australia. Polar bears waddle down from the Arctic. Sloths make it in time, apparently. It’s not a miracle; it’s a biological acid trip. And this boat, made of wood and pitch, is supposed to survive a cataclysmic deluge that lifts water fifteen cubits above the highest mountain? Where exactly does all this water come from? And more importantly, where the hell does it go?
Reality check: there is not one shred of geological evidence for a global flood. None. Not in the rock layers. Not in the fossil record. Not in tree rings, not in ice cores. Not even a suspicious sediment layer that screams, “Hey, God flushed the planet once.” What we do have is hundreds of thousands of years of uninterrupted, datable strata—layer after layer of calm, boring Earth doing its thing without needing a divine bathtub moment.
But if you still need more reason to throw this nonsense overboard, let’s talk about Ron Wyatt—the human embodiment of “wishful thinking with a shovel.” This guy wasn’t a geologist. He wasn’t an archaeologist. He was an anesthetist. That’s right, he put people to sleep for a living—and kept doing it spiritually with his fever-dream claims. According to Wyatt, not only did he find Noah’s Ark (conveniently in a vaguely boat-shaped rock formation in Turkey), but he also stumbled upon the Red Sea crossing site, Mount Sinai, the Ark of the Covenant, and Jesus’ blood. All by himself. Because apparently no one else was looking hard enough… or hallucinating as effectively.
His so-called ark site? A rock formation called Durupınar that vaguely resembles the outline of a ship—if you’re squinting, on mushrooms, and desperate. Geologists examined it and said, “That’s just a geologic formation.” Even young-earth creationist geologists dismissed it as wishful crap. When Ken Ham thinks your ‘evidence’ is embarrassing, you’ve broken the fantasy meter. Wyatt claimed it was petrified wood. Spoiler again: it’s rock. Regular, boring, non-boat-shaped rock. He paraded rusted iron nodules and formations as evidence of ancient rivets, but they’re just naturally occurring minerals. No timber. No deck. No poop deck. Just a fraud with a Bible and a pickaxe trying to sell spiritual snake oil to the already-convinced.
And what’s the moral of this story we keep teaching children in pastel cartoons? That the all-powerful, all-loving creator of the universe once looked at his creation and decided, “Time to kill everyone.” That mass murder is okay if it’s done with a rainbow at the end. That violence on a global scale is just dandy as long as you put animals two-by-two on a floating coffin and call it divine justice.
Even worse, it didn’t work. Right after the flood, God admits humans are still wicked. “Every inclination of the human heart is evil from childhood,” he sighs. So what exactly did the flood fix? Nothing. The whole exercise was performative carnage. A toddler with a flamethrower would’ve shown more foresight.
Let’s not pretend this tale is about redemption or hope. It’s a myth imported from older civilizations—the Mesopotamians told the same damn story centuries earlier, with better writing. Utnapishtim did it first in the Epic of Gilgamesh. Angry gods. Giant flood. Big boat. Survival. Sound familiar? The only thing Genesis added was a covenant sealed with weather phenomena and a god who can’t seem to stop contradicting himself.
You don’t need a geology degree to see the cracks in this foundation. You just need a functioning bullshit detector. If you’ve ever seen a children’s Bible featuring a smiling Noah on a cartoon boat while billions drown offscreen, you’ve witnessed religious sanitization at its finest. If your faith needs a genocidal fairy tale and a fake boat in Turkey to feel valid, maybe it’s time to question the ship you’re sailing on.
The Global Flood didn’t happen. It’s not a historical event. It’s not scientific. It’s not moral. And it sure as hell isn’t worth building a theme park around—unless you’re Ken Ham, cashing in on ignorance with animatronic elephants and taxpayer subsidies.
There’s no divine justice here. Just myth, manipulation, and a mountain of drowned logic.
If you’re still thirsty for more, and you should be, pour yourself a drink and dive into these:
Irving Finkel’s The Ark Before Noah breaks down the Babylonian original with all the scholarly force of a sledgehammer to the Sunday School wall. William Ryan and Walter Pitman’s Noah's Flood takes you into the real Black Sea deluge hypothesis, which isn’t global but at least has rocks to back it up. Israel Finkelstein’s The Bible Unearthed throws archaeology into the face of biblical literalism like a cold glass of wake-up juice. Thomas Thompson’s The Mythic Past reminds you that sacred stories don’t have to be factual to be dangerous. And if you want to dissect the Ron Wyatt sideshow with surgical precision, James Randi’s Holy Relics, Holy Fraud is your scalpel.
The ark is a fantasy. The flood is a myth. And faith built on fairy tales is nothing more than a paper boat in a thunderstorm.
Embrace who you are. Live your best possible life. Conquer your perceived world.
Especially when the floodgates of reason finally burst open.
No comments:
Post a Comment