Nearly
every major cultural or religious tradition on earth includes a historic deluge
myth. An online article by the Public
Broadcasting System noted that, “while not all flood stories are the same,
the description of the destruction of the world by water is a common theme in
many religions and cultures. Most flood stories include an angry God or deity,
and a catastrophic water event that destroys the world but is only survived by
a chosen few.”
The
article continues by noting that “these flood stories also seem to have
significant roots in science. Geomythology is the study of how these stories
and geology could intersect. Flood
stories may explain geological [and
climatological] phenomena such as volcanoes, earthquakes, floods, fossils, and
other natural features of the landscape.”
These stories have been depicted for millennia in folklore, literature,
art and, most recently, even in movies.
In
the Judeo-Christian tradition (from the accounts in the Torah and the Bible with
which I’m most personally familiar), I’ve always pictured it this way:
While
ominous storm clouds gather overhead and darken the skies, a sense of impending
doom begins to overshadow the Earth. People
become worried and begin to wonder and talk amongst themselves about what it
all means. Conversation turns to debate.
And as the first drops of rain begin to fall, debate turns to heated arguments
among various factions. Chaos ensues. Some groups are convinced they can prevent or
turn back the storms, but they disagree on how that can be done. Some argue that there’s little that can be
done, so they sit down to await their fate.
Still others claim it’s just a passing rain shower and rebuke the others
for their claims and beliefs.
In
the midst of all this turmoil, there’s one man and his family who are quietly and
with great effort building a massive barge in the hope that, should a flood
come, they and all the other living things they wish to save, will be spared. Ultimately, of course, the floods came and
the ark lifted to the surface and those on board were kept (yes, I’ll say it) “out
of harm’s way” until the water receded. The
simple fact that this family took action to protect themselves is the real
lesson in this story.
I
thought about this recently watching the debates rage on via news coverage of
the most recent United Nations Climate Change Conference. As I’ve
said before on this page, there are plenty of things we’ll do in the name
of “climate mitigation” that will no doubt enhance the resilience of our
communities and our populace. Regardless of one's particular feelings or
political leanings on the topic, there are logical, non-judgemental reason to reduce
our carbon footprint and do all we can to prepare for the changing future of
our world.
"Since we can work here, if we
insist, on geological time, we can always say that more and better data is
needed. But there again, if we risk losing a large chunk of humanity while we
conclude a few centuries of fieldwork, that is a high price to pay for reliable
data. It may be more prudent to proceed on guesswork, and to guess that we
should probably do something to guard against a worst-case outcome, if...
scientists say that that is where we are currently heading, and if the measures
needed to combat climate change (also provide benefits in other ways)."
But
I hearken back to my story of Noah. Storm
clouds are gathering (literally) and there may be little we can do to prevent
the inevitable. Climate mitigation is
just one piece of the puzzle. But, like
Noah saw, it may be getting too late to mitigate our way out of this. Which is why he opted to take his family’s
fate into his own hands.
In
our modern age, there’s a lot of finger pointing going on, even among those who
acknowledge there’s a climate problem (e.g., Who’s at fault for causing the problem?
Who should pay? And to whom?). Where’s that getting any of us? And what about all the other geologic hazards
that continue to affect human development? We can’t stop volcanoes from eradicating
island resorts or earthquakes from leveling entire towns and villages. And, as we’ve learned recently, events like a
global pandemic can overshadow them all.
If
the point of all this is truly to save as many lives as possible, maybe it’s
time we shift our focus to actions we can take to harden our buildings and shield
our communities against potential hazards of all types.
Maybe,
as the
ULI says, we should be “investing in places and infrastructure that are the
most likely to endure.”
Maybe
better building codes should be better enforced.
Maybe
more resources should be directed toward better zoning and locational decisions.
Maybe
we should eliminate the incentives (like flood insurance) that encourage development
in areas prone to natural hazards.
Maybe
the proceeds from “carbon credits” should be directed, not at trying to sequester
carbon, but at agencies and NGOs that are helping relocate and rebuild safer towns
and villages in underserved and hazard-prone regions of the world.
Because
maybe by making adaptation the priority (rather than the “back-up plan”) we’ll
be able to better ensure that vulnerable populations all over the world remain safe.
That’s
what Noah did.
