
Wrestling with the Waters: Mystery of Sea Life in the Flood
Reading Genesis 7 again, you'd think the story of Noah and the flood would be straightforward. After all, it's one of the most well-known stories in the Bible. But a recent group discussion brought fresh eyes to the passage—especially verse 23—and opened up an entire ocean of interpretation and theological questions.
Someone raised a deceptively simple question: What about the fish?
Genesis 7:23 reads, “Every living thing on the face of the earth was wiped out.” But just a verse earlier, the text clarifies that “everything on dry land that had the breath of life in its nostrils died.” So... fish and other sea creatures weren’t included in that description. They’re not breathing through nostrils, right? Does that mean they were spared?
That sparked a lively unraveling of not just translation differences (hello, KJV vs. NASB), but also the importance of how we interpret scripture—what some refer to as hermeneutics. As one person noted, “You can’t point to a verse in the Bible and say, ‘There’s my theology.’” The Bible narrows in and clarifies itself as you read on.
What starts broad (“every living thing”) is honed in later (“everything that moved along the ground”).
It's a good reminder that scripture doesn’t spoon-feed the reader. You have to engage it—ask questions, chase context, compare translations, and let the Bible interpret itself. The Hebrew word “nephesh”, often used about beings with the breath of life, came up—a distinction that may or may not include sea life. Even the act of breathing comes into discussion. Dolphins and whales, for example, have nostrils. Do they count?
We went deeper, literally and figuratively, into the symbolism of the sea. Some offered a fascinating take: the flood may have also affected sea life due to the violent current, underwater upheaval, and the massive mixing of freshwater springs and salty seas. There’s scientific backing too—sediment layers around the world bear evidence of a cataclysmic event, laid down not gradually, but suddenly and powerfully. Could even fish survive such trauma?
And then came the real twist: what if the sea wasn't spared because it was safe, but because it already represented chaos?
This idea—drawn from Genesis, Revelation, and prophetic books—paints the sea not just as a habitat but as a symbol of disorder, evil, and even demonic activity. “The beast comes out of the sea,” someone noted, and Revelation describes a new world where “there is no longer any sea.” The sea was where the spirit of God hovered in Genesis 1, yes—but also where chaos lived, awaiting God’s order. In that view, perhaps God didn’t need to destroy sea life. The sea already contained the chaos, or was the very embodiment of it, making the flood a purging of everything into the sea.
This idea found support in later verses: demons cast into pigs rush into the water, and when cast out, they seek rest from “arid places.”
Water isn’t just a neutral element—it’s loaded with spiritual weight. Some saw a potential thread tying Genesis to Romans 8, where Paul says all creation is groaning, awaiting redemption. Even animals, even birds. Even fish?
And then came a surprising moment of beauty: a story was shared about a woman who had a near-death experience and described blades of grass singing in heaven. It echoed scriptures saying all of creation praises God—even inanimate things. “The rocks will cry out,” Jesus said. If even grass and stone can sing, who’s to say fish don’t worship, too?
That brought us full circle to the flood. Was the sea life spared not out of oversight, but for a specific, symbolic reason? Did God allow the waters to retain the chaos while cleansing the earth above? Or did the violence of the flood devastate everything, including the creatures of the deep?
In the end, the question remained unresolved, but maybe that was the point.
Studying the Bible isn’t about finding one perfect answer. It's about drawing closer to truth, wrestling with the text, and discovering the layers within it. Whether it’s parsing the meaning of “nephesh” or contemplating why the sea might not exist in the world to come, the goal is to keep exploring, together. Drawing nearer to God.
One thing’s for sure: Genesis 7 is about more than a boat. It’s about identity, judgment, worship, and even chaos itself—and in that stormy sea of ideas, we might just find the breath of life.
Clean and Unclean: Filters, Food, and Faith
One of the more thought-provoking ideas that came up during our discussion was around clean and unclean animals—not as an arbitrary set of dietary rules, but as deeply symbolic and even practical. From someone's “pet theory” about why certain animals are deemed clean or unclean, especially from a modern biological lens.
Pork, for example, is considered unclean. We now know that pigs have functioning sweat glands; they can’t purify toxins. Shellfish and bottom feeders like shrimp and mussels? They're nature’s filters. They consume the impurities in the water. You can drop a pile of mussels into the filthy water, and in a week, the water is crystal clear—because the mussels absorbed the filth.
And it’s like God’s saying, “Yeah, don’t eat that. That’s what I’m using to clean everything else.”
One might ask in light of the statements of Messiah, “How is not eating pork or shellfish an act of love for your neighbor?” The answer seems to come back to stewardship. We’re depleting the earth’s natural filters through our consumption. The cleaner animals—the ones meant to restore and purify creation—are being wiped out to satisfy our cravings. That affects everyone. Disease spreads, water becomes toxic, and suddenly it’s not just about dietary preference, it's about public health, economics, and environmental impact.
It’s not just the pollution—it’s also the way we raise animals now. Farming, or more accurately, mass agriculture, has deviated from God’s intention. Animals aren’t grazing freely anymore. They’re confined, force-fed things they were never meant to eat—soy, corn, processed slop. And then we consume them and wonder why sickness increases.
But God’s guidelines weren’t just about physical health. There’s a spiritual symbolism, too. Clean animals chew the cud—they meditate on what they consume. Spiritually, God wants us to be like that: not just consuming everything the world throws at us, but reflecting, discerning, and meditating. Unclean animals eat whatever’s in front of them. God calls us to be set apart—to not eat whatever is on offer, physically or spiritually.
When Peter has that vision in Acts 10, and God tells him to eat what was previously unclean, it’s not about food. It’s about people. The Gentiles represented symbolically as unclean animals, are being brought in. God isn’t making pork clean. He’s making people clean.
Even the ocean—this massive, chaotic place where all things eventually flow—serves as a symbol. It’s full of unclean creatures, scavengers, and filters of the earth. So when we’re told not to eat them, it’s not random. It’s a reflection of our identity: who we are, what we participate in, and what we reject.
This tied into a deeper discussion about food and identity. The topic of food idolatry—specifically sugar and junk food. It’s not just about sugar. It’s about surrender. It's about that haunting question from God: "Am I enough for you?"
That vulnerability cracked open something powerful. We talked about food as more than fuel. It’s an object lesson. God teaches through object lessons—he always has. Food becomes a way to reflect what we’re taking in spiritually. Are we feeding on junk? Are we being filled or just numbed? Are we starving for real nourishment—deep, rich fellowship and truth?
“This idol is part of the false identity I grew up with. I’m trying to strip that away and replace it with my identity in Him.” took us further.
That resonated deeply. So many of us are trying to shed false versions of ourselves—what the world told us we were, what our families, culture, or even our trauma shaped us into. And God, in his love, uses something as ordinary as food to invite us into sanctification.
There was expressed gratitude for having a Bible-believing husband and the kind of fellowship we were having that day—real, deep, vulnerable. “I’ve been starving for this,” and we realized together it wasn’t just a metaphor.
We also reflected on how popular psychology today often vilifies restriction. “Don’t restrict, just listen to your body,” we’re told. But in the Bible, self-control is a fruit of the Spirit. It’s not restriction—it’s discipleship. To be a disciple is to be disciplined. Modern culture tells us that restricting yourself is a form of oppression. God says it’s a path to freedom.
The world tells us to indulge our cravings. God says to crucify the flesh.
Someone else summed it up in such a relatable, raw way: “If that fruit in Eden had been a cupcake, I would’ve been done. I’m not even kidding. That cupcake is crack cocaine to me.”
This is the reason for gathering together, to help encourage, strengthen, and hold up the mirror of God's Word to each other. We’re gathering, chewing the cud together, filtering through what’s clean and what’s not, both in our fridges and in our hearts, and God is meeting us in it.
“Shut In by God: Time, Identity, and the Days of Noah”
In this week’s study, the conversation turned toward the mysterious depths of biblical numbers and timelines—where theology meets prophecy and symbolism meets reality.
Reflecting on the profound symbolism of numbers in Scripture, the number seven stands for perfection and completeness, a rhythm built into the very fabric of creation. But it was the number eight that sparked awe—a symbol of eternity, the Eighth Great Day as the beginning of the new heavens and the new earth. “It’s the next week,” “the beginning of forever.” One person’s mind was completely blown by that idea. “Why do you think the number eight looks like the infinity symbol?” A cosmic wink from God Himself.
That moment unraveled into a deeper dive into time itself. The 120 years God gives before the flood (Genesis 6:3)—often debated as a lifespan limit—might instead point to a broader prophetic timeline. If 120 jubilees (50 years each) equal 6,000 years, could it be that God laid out the entire span of human history before the flood even began?
Creation itself becomes a divine blueprint: each “day” of the creation week represents a thousand years, according to Peter. This idea aligns with the millennial reign of Christ and the belief that we’re nearing the end of the sixth “day,” standing on the threshold of the Sabbath rest, the seventh millennium.
Despite all the calculations and clues, “You can’t know the day or hour.” But Jesus was clear: you must know the season (Matthew 24). And we’ve been given breadcrumbs—signs in the heavens, disruptions on earth, and changes in society that feel eerily familiar to the “Days of Noah.”
The conversation turned toward identity, both personal and cultural. The flood wasn’t just because of external wickedness, but the internal corruption of the heart—a society that looked advanced, educated, and even peaceful, but had completely lost sight of who they were created to be. “They were sacrificing babies in temples,” someone said. “We do it today too—just not in stone temples. In the womb.”
It’s the same sin—whitewashed and rebranded—but as destructive as ever. And just like in Noah’s day, it’s our identity that’s under attack. The divine institutions—responsible dominion, marriage, and family—are being dismantled, not just by culture, but by confusion. Boys raised without fathers, girls raised without mothers, and adults more unsure of who they are than ever before.
“We're living in a society that tells people their identity is in their trauma, in their addiction, in their confusion,” one person said, “But our identity is in Christ.”
That’s the power of the gospel—both in salvation from sin, and restoration of identity.
Like the ark, we’re “shut in” by God, sealed in His mercy, called His children. Just as God shuts the door on the ark, He shuts us in, protects us, and marks us as His own.
But the same door of mercy that closes behind us also closes to others—and that’s why the urgency of the gospel is so great.
“If we had the cure for cancer,” someone added, “wouldn’t we tell everyone? We have the cure for death—why would we keep it to ourselves?”
The session ended with a reflection on language—how even our words shape our thinking. In English, we say “I am depressed,” as if we become our emotions. But in older languages, it’s “I feel depressed.” This subtle difference reveals a deeper spiritual issue: we’re identifying with brokenness instead of truth.
And that’s the devil’s oldest trick—getting us to forget who we are. The good news? God still speaks, still calls, still clothes us in Christ, and still shuts us in with His love.
The door is closing. But for those inside, the flood means deliverance.