Back to New Orleans?

I had a conversation over IM with a friend there this morning. She and her husband evacuated to Atlanta; it took them 21 hours to get there because the governor of Mississippi closed I-10 east. Said husband is recovering from major surgery. They’re not home yet.

I asked if I could do anything besides pray. She said not yet, but to check with ODR. I e-mailed them. I’m too frail to build a house; I feel constantly like I’ve been up all night. I have time in January, but I don’t know if I could afford the trip anyway. But if I can, and there’s work I can do, I’d go back in a nanosecond.

We’ll see what happens.

Gustav

Go read this. Please.

Alleluia!

LOUISIANA: Diocesan efforts bring hope and help to New Orleans

By Lisa B. Hamilton, April 07, 2008
[Episcopal News Service] When the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) announced that federal funding for case management services will be extended through June 1, the Diocese of Louisiana rejoiced -- and earned some credit.

As The New Orleans Times-Picayune explains, "in late 2005 a partnership of 10 national agencies maintained staffs of case workers paid for by $66 million from international donors. But that money has run out; the network, called Katrina Aid Today, was set to go out of business Monday [March 31], with more than 4,000 Louisiana cases still open. "For months, partner agencies, particularly the Episcopal Diocese of Louisiana, have been hunting for fresh money to keep paying case workers -- which the FEMA announcement at least partly addressed Friday."

Read the rest here.
***

All of us who have been there know, the city is recovering, vibrant and amazing--and there is still tons of work to do. You can support the Diocese of Louisiana's efforts financially, through donation of goods/services, or by volunteering. Click here to learn more.

Enough with trying to sound like a PR professional. My heart says this: Go. See the city. Get to know the people. Do the work. You will be given way more than you can imagine, and more than you yourself are giving. You'll barely recognize yourself, when you get home--if you even go home. (I met lots of people who went for a week, and stayed for months.)

I made friends there, and I was changed forever. I am more open and aware of what the world is like, than books and news articles ever would have made me. I have relationships there with people who matter to me. I listened to stories that lodged in my soul--and all I did to receive them, was ask for someone's time. I've been in a church with equal volunteers and locals, and eaten meals with whomever showed up. I was treated incredibly warmly, and the only real word for it all is love.

I'd go back in a New York second. Go.

Birthing

This is an adaptation of an e-mail I sent to a friend. It’s also a prayer request. Sometimes it helps me to share with someone I trust before I proclaim to the world. The feedback I got affirmed the clarity I felt, even through my inarticulateness. I’ve added a few details for context, and removed some—but much of this is verbatim. Please pray for the homeless, the exiles, and the sense of mission to them that’s being birthed in me. Thank you.

I have to make a phone call this morning, to someone I’ve never spoken with. I’m still on muscle relaxants, and didn’t take them last night, in the interest of clearing my head. I can write clearly enough, but can't sequence worth anything, when I talk. I keep starting, and stopping, mapping things in my head and starting over. It’s really frustrating.

I used to literally think in print, all the time. Until I started really trying to talk about God. Now, any concept—any at all—comes to me in images. If I could paint, it would be a lot easier.

I also used to be a much more casual blogger. Now I only write anything substantial if I'm impelled to. It often takes me half a day. I still enjoy it, and it's still an artistic process; I just do it from a completely different place. It’s both a place of mission, and of “sighs too deep for words.”

My prayer group met last night, for the first time since late fall. I talked about NOLA. I told them about the interweaving of vibrance and problems and devastation and resurrection, and why I love the city. I told them of the homeless encampment on Claiborne, and how witnessing that had galvanized me. Since I've been back, I've envisioned starting a chaplaincy for homeless people. It was the first time I'd told this group, I know my place is with the exiles and I want a collar so I can feed them. [I use that term, both physically and sacramentally.] Someone asked me, "Who is this God, who's making you want to do this?"

Damn good question. The only words I have are love, nonjudging, not forgetting anyone. The more-true truth is the image, of being shot through with a lightning bolt. Not in the sense of storminess or danger or even traveling quickly—but pure, clear, warm light; rightness. "Go. Show them that I love them."

I don't know yet where I’ll end up. But I know that this wanting to feed the homeless and the exiles is the right path.

Thank you, Mimi!

Mimi and Grandpère had an extra copy of this CD. She gave it to me, because I love her city so much. I’m rocking out to it right now. It got here today, on Mardi Gras.

Feeling “homesick” in a good way. I lived there only for a month. Everything in me wants to go back. Before I went, I’d have told you that I didn’t like jazz all that much. That’s because I equated it with public-radio, New-Agey stuff. I heard a lot of street musicians in New Orleans, and their music is not that. Real jazz is an expression of the vivacity of that city. If I heard it in San Francisco or Seattle, it wouldn’t sound the same. This music is so organic to that place, and it’s a place I’m thoroughly in love with.

This CD makes me sad; it also makes me happy. It’s fun to listen to. And it inspires me to pray for New Orleans all over again; for the resurrection in the devastation, the lotus in the mud. (Yes, I spent years with Buddhists, though I never became one. The imagery fits.)

I want to go back. I want to support the spiritual rebuilding, if not the physical. I pray that I can. There is so much work to do.

One of the things I’ve been thinking of, is starting a chaplaincy for homeless people. Too early to tell, whether that’s a call, or a dream. I know there is need for it, though—and not only in NOLA, but every major city. The need there is so great, but there is desperate poverty in my own back yard, though I live in an area known for its affluence. We shall see what comes of this idea.

Anyway, thank you again, Mimi and Grandpère! Oh, and if you buy this for yourself (or a friend), a portion of the proceeds goes to the New Orleans Musicians' Village.

Happy Mardi Gras!

(Image courtesy NOLA.com)

New Orleans, I miss you.

And here's an article about the Mardi Gras Indians.

From Bishop Charles Jenkins of Louisiana

Bishop Jenkins of Louisiana seeks our prayers, in support of people and families affected and displaced by Katrina. I've met some of the case managers he refers to. They do good, and necessary work. Please pray for them, and for the bishop, and for the Diocese of Louisiana's relief efforts.

Here is the text of Bishop Jenkins' post.
***

Please pray with me. I seek your prayer and support on several pending issues.

Some may know that Case Management across the Gulf Coast will cease in March unless a bill pending in Congress allows FEMA to fund our efforts. Case Management has been heretofore carried on by a coalition of national relief organizations under the stewardship and leadership of the United Methodist Council on Relief (UMCOR). Our coalition is called Katrina Aid Today. Other church groups have included Lutheran World Services, Catholic Social Services and Episcopal Relief and Development. The original funding for Case Management came not from tax dollars but from a gift to the United States from the government of Qatar. We who have been involved in Case Management more than matched this gift. A bill in Congress (S2335) would enable FEMA to continue to fund Case Management. No new taxes are needed because the funding is in the FEMA budget.

Case Management is teaching one to fish. You know the old story of giving a person a fish today and they will be hungry tomorrow. Teach them to fish . . . Case Management is a professional means to enable people to construct a recovery plan, to provide some resources to make the plan feasible, and then for people to stand on their own. The Episcopal Diocese of Louisiana alone graduated 325 families in December of last year. So please, pray for a miracle here. I do not want to see this important ministry stop nor do I want to see it sputter to a temporary halt and then try to start up again. We have proven our capacity to do Case Management.

I ask also that you pray about my capacity to continue funding a relationship with a law firm in Washington, Krivit and Krivit. This is a complicated issue (Church and State). The fact is that we would not be so far along in seeking funding for the continuation of Case Management were it not for the hard work and professional knowledge of the good people in this firm. I am out of money to pay them. They are working on faith now. I have many requests “out” for funding but so far, no action. There is more, much more, for us to do with Krivit and Krivit.

Thank you for your prayers and support.

Bishop Jenkins

h/t Ormonde Plater.

I'm safely back in California

Wide-eyed and wide awake, though my body thinks it's after midnight.

There's so much I need and want to do—for school, self, and ODR. I'm not even going to share my to-do list; it's frightfully long. I have to hit the ground running tomorrow.

Thank you all for your prayers for me. Please keep them up, for New Orleans. Pray for all forsaken and forgotten people. Pray for resurrection, wherever it be found.

And thank you to all the people of New Orleans—people who became my friends, and strangers on the streetcar—who told your stories, answered my (sometimes achingly naive) questions, took care of me, and shared your love of your city with me. Thank you for your generosity, and for your sacred trust. Thank you for everything you do, to bring justice, peace, and reconciliation to your home. Your work will always inspire me.

Peace be with all of you, and healing, with your city. I will do the best I can, to help you.

Thy people shall be my people

...and thy God shall be my God.

I am in love, and in hope, with this city. I’ve never been so exhausted, and so energized, at one time in all my life.

Yes, there is devastation. I walked yesterday from the end of the Canal streetcar line (at the cemeteries), about two miles to the homecoming center at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, in the Lakeview neighborhood. I passed houses that still had floodlines on them, higher than my head. Empty houses, and empty lots. Torn screens. Weathered wood, and rusted metal. Spray-paint codes, fading with time.

There was also new construction. Signs in windows, reading, “We’re Home.” Fresh paint. Scrubbed brick. New framing, bones of houses, not gutted and weary but rising from the mud.

There is hope here. I heard it yesterday in the voice of a woman who had organized a neighborhood renewal, since spread throughout the city, based on cooperation and sharing resources. I saw her love for her home, and this city, shining in her eyes, as she talked about how she has been blessed in the gifts she’s been able to give.

I hear it over and over, in the stories people tell me of their lives in this city since the storm. They tell me why they love it here, why they came home, why they stayed. They stayed because it is their home. Because Houston or Mobile or wherever, just wasn’t. Because this is New Orleans. There is a vivacity here that is unique to this place. So much in the culture is about relationships, and about acceptance. You can be whoever you are—not only in the Mardi Gras, crazy way portrayed in the media (though there is that), but in your dailiness as well. The violence, and crime, are of course awful. But life is celebrated here, too.

I am in love with the spirit of resurrection I see and feel all around me. I’d give anything to be able to stay, longer than I can. I’m hoping and praying to come back. The spiritual rebirth is as apparent as the physical, and everything in me wants to be part of it.

I’ve been given so many gifts here. Of course there are the stories. The trust people place in me, while I’m listening to them tell about the most difficult time in their lives, is sacred. It floors me, not only that they’ve been so willing, but that they say that the telling is a gift also to them. I’ve gotten better at listening, and at asking, and I’ve seen my own skills grow. I wish, with all my soul, that I could keep doing this.

I’ve also been well cared for. Two people in particular have taken me under their wings, helped me get going, taught me something, mentored me—they know who they are, and I thank them. These relationships, I won’t have to work to hold onto—they are connections that will abide. And a few days after my car accident, the bishop of Louisiana dropped in on me at the Urban Ministry Center. He just wanted to be sure I was okay, and to join the chorus of people (playfully) chiding me for walking all the way from here to St. Anna’s. (What? It’s only about four or five miles.) And then he went outside, to talk to a community organizer in the street. It’s all just part of the day for him.

I can’t say enough about St. Anna’s. It has been, and will be, an anchor for me—both on Wednesdays when I’m here, and into the soul and spirit of this city, wherever I am. I only know the Wednesday community, which changes because that’s when volunteers go. But the mix of people that show up there, and the free, competent health care, and the music—which sometimes is great, and sometimes is the weirdest damn stuff in the world—you just need to experience it. You never know who you’re going to eat with, or what you’re going to listen to, or what conversations you’re going to strike up. This is more than church. This is life, in this city. It’s resurrection, in the middle of the week.

There’s also the healing aspect of the Eucharist. In San Francisco, I go to the healing station whenever I feel like it, either to ask for healing or to say thank you. It’s always available. But it’s about me, my need, my desire. Here, the connection between holy oil on each of our heads, and the healing of this city, is so strong it doesn’t need to be discussed. It’s just… obvious. We are rising with this city, as we come to witness or rebuild. We are living in the resurrection.

And the need for resurrection is so great. I talk about hope, and I feel it. I see reasons for rejoicing, everywhere. But there is also such anger, still. People were forgotten—and they don’t just suspect or feel it, they know it. The national and local response has come from faith-based groups, not from government. The rebuild is being done by residents and volunteers. This city is being remade by the people who live in it, who love it, who will go through fire and flood to call it home. They need help and support—one told me, “We don’t expect it (in the sense of hand-outs)—but we need it.” Please come. Bear witness. Get your hands dirty. Come and love these people.

I had a conversation with a priest the other day; it was the first time I’d met him. We talked about mission, and he asked if I see myself working long-term in DioCal. I had to answer him, my process is there but I’d be shocked if I stay there. It’s such a wealthy area. There is poverty everywhere in this world. Violence, everywhere. Need, everywhere. Inside every soul, there is suffering; there is need for God. I know that everywhere I go, I will find the people who need to find me. I also know that my place is with the exiled, the forgotten, the struggling. My skills may be nascent, at best, but I am learning. This is who I am. These are the people God is calling me to serve. Being here, doing this work, has confirmed that a thousand times over.

I keep having to remind myself, I’m not a New Orleanian. I lived most of my life in the Northwest. I live in Berkeley; I worship in San Francisco. I’m from a different world. But I feel a kinship here, that I’ve not felt in other places. Whether or not I live here again, a piece of me will call this home.

There’s something else that makes it hard to think about re-entry into California. I have loved the work here, so much. Friends elsewhere have called me a saint for doing it, and for witnessing on behalf of New Orleans. I don’t feel that way at all. This is the work I asked for; the work I choose, the work that's in front of me. I’m not special because I’m doing this; I’m privileged because I’m getting to discover the depth of my passion for mission, for this work, for these people. The work has grown me, as I’ve done it, and as I’ve discovered how much I love it. I know I’m living into my call. And I also know that the first thing I have to do when I get back to Berkeley, is get out of trouble with my advisor. Then I have to finish my academics. And that is absolutely not where my head is. I want to be in the world, getting dirty with the people of God.

I don’t know how to take the self that has grown so much in NOLA, and live into that growth in California, in an environment in which I struggle, and where I have more work to do just to hold my head up and look people in the eyes. I feel bigger—not in the sense of no longer a child, but like enough of a human being. I’m wearing the clothes of a competent soul, and they fit me.

I stand in solidarity with the people of this city. It is so clear to me that my work is here--though I also know that this is a learning ground for me, to work competently with and for all of God's exiled and forgotten children. I'm going, as I am, back to California. I will learn how to take this integrity with me.

I have to go and eat; I'm still on monster Motrin for the whiplash, and it's past time to take it. And right now I'm close to crying, I love this city so much.

Graces

Wow, I am so overdue for an update. I keep trying. I’m so busy and involved here, and having so many incredible experiences. When I’ve had down time, I’ve been exhausted.

I’m taking today to rest, write, and catch up, so let’s see what I can do.

I’m doing research for EDOLA staff who’s writing a book, one aspect of which is graces in the storm. There have been so many graces in my own life, here. I’ve been given so many unexpected gifts: all at some cost, but which have grown me in ways I won’t understand for a long time.

One of these graces is the work itself. I’m interviewing survivors of Katrina. The first week or so I was here, I was really shy about asking people to talk to me. One afternoon with a vivacious deacon cured that. More on her, later. Since that day, it’s been easy. People have been so willing to talk to me. All but one were directly hurricane-affected; most are caregivers in some way (clergy, rebuild coordinator, volunteers). As I’ve done this, I’ve gotten better at it: listening more closely, able to ask better questions and still be sensitive. Their trust in me is sacred, and amazing. Yesterday, I asked at church if anyone had transcription software, as I have several hours of these interviews. No one did. But the rector spoke about how sharing her story with me had been a gift to her, as well. I believe she’d been the first, and I really didn’t know what I was doing then. She had offered me 45 minutes, and given an hour and a half. She was so eloquent, composed and articulate; I’d had no idea that this work of mine had given something real to her. Since then, others have told me the same.

I’ve already written about the gift of St. Anna’s. If you come here, go on a Wednesday night. My having visited nine months ago, gave me an anchor for now. They’re in the thick of the resurrection of this city: they know devastation, and wow do they know joy. They will welcome you.

I interviewed someone I met at St. Anna’s, who is involved in the Mobile Medical Mission. We talked for over an hour. I turned off the recorder, and we kept chatting. He used a phrase that has always bothered me: “There but for the grace of God go I.” I told him why I was cringing; I was a Catholic Worker for a year, and the only things I saw that separated me from the guests were chance and circumstance. If God is everywhere, and God’s grace keeps me from being homeless, where is God for the homeless person? He talked to me about the presence of gifts and graces in everything: a meal, a bed, your life. And he said to me, “Maybe a grace for them is you.”

Oh. I got it.

Last Thursday, Mimi and Grandpère took me to lunch. They live about an hour and a half from here. We got into an accident, and I got whiplash. Yes, it hurts—but other than being kind of wiped out, I’m not really suffering all that much. I went to the ER at Touro Infirmary the day after it happened, and got diagnosed and treated. They did a CT scan of my neck (all clear, thank God) and gave me good drugs. My neck’s only slightly stiff; the pain’s in my right scapula. The first two days, I felt fileted. That gave way to a feeling of having been vaguely kicked in the back, and like someone has their fingers underneath my shoulder blade and is trying to tickle me. My right pinkie was feeling a little weird; now it’s mostly better. The drugs are really kind of fun; I take a muscle relaxant at night, which has me hopelessly uncoordinated in ten minutes and asleep seconds after. (My friends I've e-mailed after taking it, know this.)

Mimi’s been amazing; she checks in with me pretty much daily, to see how I am. I’m just thankful that neither of them were hurt. 2 ½ months of neurological weirdness, I can handle. They’re both older; I’ll heal much faster than they would.

And it’s only transient pain. There is no permanent injury. I’m learning that all human experiences prepare us to minister to one another; I’ve certainly been ministered to here, by people who have suffered more loss than I can wrap my mind around. There is a deep humanity here; it’s one of the things that draws me to this city. And I was in an accident a month ago, from which we all walked away just fine but which was pretty much my fault. It can happen to anyone.

I mentioned earlier, the help I received from a fantastic deacon. Deacons in this diocese rock. They do everything. The deacon at St. Andrew’s asked me a week ago, “How’s your project going?” I told her, not as productive as I want—I was having trouble figuring out transportation, and struggling with getting going. So she offered to either lend me her truck or drive me around.

That was all the impetus I needed. I’d been really stressed, and felt guilty about not doing enough. With her offer, and the interest of others at St. Andrew’s, I felt so much better. That Sunday afternoon was warm and beautiful—think May in Olympia, September in San Francisco. I took the streetcar to the Quarter, played tourist and ate. Walked until my feet were aching; went to Jackson Square and watched the river for awhile, remembering how to breathe. Bought some Mardi Gras beads and a shirt that reads, “Re Cover Re Build Re New Orleans.” Took the streetcar home… and I don’t remember, but I think I took a nap.

That Monday afternoon, Elaine picked me up, and then another friend of hers, and we drove downtown to the mayor’s office to deliver roses to him. They do this every Monday; one rose for each murder victim of the previous week. St. Andrew’s does the mayor’s office; St. Anna’s, the chief of police. They go in pairs; the apostolic model, and it keeps them accountable for going every week. We talked to the woman at the front desk, briefly: she gets it, though I don’t know whether the mayor does. Afterward, Elaine invited me in for tea, and we started doing the interview. We talked for maybe 45 minutes, then we got on the topic of Brad Pitt’s pink tents. I think she said she hadn’t seen them; I said, “I know where they are. Wanna go out there?”

She looked at her watch, and we jumped in the car. We talked the whole time; she knows so much about this city, and she freely shared it with me. She told me which neighborhoods we were in as we drove through them, and showed me the homeless encampment under the freeway. We drove around in the Lower 9th, and circled back to the pink tents. Some of them were down—and a house was going up.

This is her home; her city. It isn’t mine. But we both cheered. This is resurrection.

There have been so many other gifts and graces, here. It will take me a long time to realize, and remember, all of them. But I needed to get something in print; I don’t want to forget this, and I want to share the hope I’ve found here.

I’ve been told again and again, “Disaster can happen to you. And we will be there, when it does.” These are human beings. They did not deserve what happened to them; it is not their fault, for living where they do. (The San Andreas fault runs 800 miles through the most populous state in this nation.) They have thanked me over and over, and told me how much the presence of volunteers—for compassion, as much as any skill—has meant to them. This city is rebuilding, and it’s thanks to the vibrant spirit of these people, as well as the help they’ve received from volunteers. Come and see.

Back to St. Anna's

I went to sleep last night smelling like chrism, and I could still catch a hint of its sweetness when I woke up. A friend says that’s like “living in resurrection”—and he doesn’t know how right he is. This church is in the thick of it, and rising.

My I-guess-you-could-call-it-office is at the dining room table in the house next door to the Diocese of Louisiana headquarters. The administrator answers the phone, “Office of Disaster Response.” Upstairs are Jericho Road, some other programs, and volunteer housing. Yesterday I was displaced to the kitchen table, because Bishop Jenkins (whom I really like) had a lunch meeting with seminarians from Nashotah. I immersed myself in research; some for my project and some for myself, to understand more deeply the effects of the storm. I e-mailed some people I want to interview. And I left in the late afternoon, to walk to St. Anna’s for the Wednesday evening healing Eucharist. It was both spiritual food, and fieldwork.

One curious detail, I learned in the Urban Ministry Center kitchen. While trash pickup is restored to the city, you still have to truck your own recycling out—more than two years after the storm. The same is true in Slidell (across Lake Pontchartrain) and I don’t know where else. What I thought at first was environmental insensitivity, isn’t—it’s just the way things are, here. There is still so much to put back together.

I gauged the time for my walk just fine—but had never quite realized that an hour and a half meant approximately four miles. (I amble, particularly when carrying my office on my back.) I’m feeling it today. My body feels stretched, good-tired, strong. I could have made it shorter by heading up a side street; the city’s laid out like the spokes of a wheel. But I don’t know the neighborhood well enough to feel safe committing myself to exploration, when I’m essentially racing the sun to get where I’m going. (That’s one of the drawbacks of being here alone and carless; I’m much more self-protective than I was when here with a group.) I stuck to the neutral ground—at home we’d call it a median—walking along the streetcar tracks, down St. Charles. I saw lots of joggers; mostly men, a few women. The city is flat, and the ground is soft. Sidewalks in lots of places are broken, uneven, crumbly. The only risk while running in the neutral ground, provided you’re facing the streetcars, is mud.

Speaking of, it’s pouring right now. I love that sound!

I followed the streetcar line all the way to Canal St., which was farther than I’d thought it would be. Then turned up a fairly quiet street in the Quarter, and followed that all the way to Esplanade. (I was, by then, trying to shorten the walking distance—but if I do it again, will just stay on Bourbon. It’s always crowded, and in that way feels safer. I’ve walked in dicey places in Seattle, in the day when I could and at night when I had to—and felt less afraid than I do here. (It’s hard to scare me, ordinarily; I hate having the murder rate burned into my head. But in this city, it is.)

Turned up Esplanade just before dusk. Walked past a FEMA trailer park; the same settlement I’d biked past, last Saturday. Then past a huge, antebellum-looking house—I think it’s a hotel—surrounded on three sides by chain-link fencing, and in the front by a huge wrought-iron gate. I wondered then, and still, if they’d feel safer if they took their fences down. I think I would.

Saw the Medical Mission trailer parked behind St. Anna’s, and entered the church by a side door. They were setting up the parish hall for dinner. I recognized Bill, the rector, from behind, by his long white ponytail. He knew I was coming—but I think he was as happy to see me as I was to see him. We hugged hello, and I told him again what I’m doing here. It felt—and feels—so good to have a place in this city that feels like home. I don’t know the community at all—but I feel so safe, so comfortable there, in a way that I don’t feel in more “establishment” churches. (Ha, St. Anna’s was founded in 1846, and is Anglo-Catholic to this day. But all kinds of ragtags and riffraff worship here; locals and volunteers alike.) Part of it’s him; part is the services to the community that happen there. It’s just a good place. I won’t go on a Sunday, because they use incense like nobody’s business. But on a Wednesday night, I can hang out in the back, or duck outside—besides, the health clinic (which also includes acupuncture and massage, all free) and benefit dinner for musicians are too cool not to be part of.

[Incense is usually a huge emotional trigger for me, as much as it's a physical one. But this is not my school, my parish, my home. I don't have the inclusion response that I did when St. Aidan's used it for the midnight Mass at Christmas. It's what St. Anna's does. My work includes keeping my own home safe; it doesn't extend to changing the culture in a parish 2300 miles away, that does so much right. Bill flexes for me anyway; last time I was here, he used it, but didn't process it in. I could feel it, but I could also stay away. Other times and places, the response has been, "We're using it," or, "We're only using a little." The subtext is, "Others want it. Tough." I don't feel that, here.]

I was lucky last night; it wasn’t a feast day, so I could freely breathe. (When they use incense, it’s thick enough so that I can’t go anywhere near the altar. Asthma sucks; it's also real.) Bill had a few minutes before he had to get ready for church; he took the time to teach me some Nashotah arcanery, and tease the deacon for the way she was dressed. He showed me the closet full of copes (I'm not kidding; they have eight in there, and others farmed out around the city.). He also remembered I can't do incense, and we talked about that.

Bill kicked me out of the sacristy so he could get dressed, and I went in to church. The liturgy was straightforward Rite II; the music was gorgeous. They use LEVAS (Lift Every Voice and Sing, gospel hymnal) exclusively, at least on Wednesdays, and the song leader announces the hymns right before you sing them—so nobody knows what's coming. He leads the singing loudly enough, so that it didn't matter that many of us sounded very white. (No joke; the family behind me was from Madison, WI. They’re down here helping with the rebuild.)

The gospel was Jesus walking on the water, from Mark; the sermon was about loving ourselves so we could love others, and not being afraid of love. The Peace was much like we do it at St. A’s; not so much the hug-fest, but everyone greeted everyone else. Very open; very friendly.

Bill asked the family behind me to introduce themselves, during announcements. He didn’t ask a thing of me. Apparently, having been here once makes you a regular. He also thanked all the out-of-towners for being here; said it communicates to them that we’re still thinking about them. New Orleans is moving past the recovery phase, into the rebuild. It’s my observation that this city is being rebuilt by college students and youth-group kids. This place still needs our love and attention; our money, our skills, our time. Even if all you can do, like me, is listen to and gather stories. Everything counts.

They do use fish food; oh well. Here, even that felt sacred. I didn't recognize the wine (which isn’t saying much); I think it’s also what's used at the very middle-class St. Andrew's. Spicy. Good. Kinda festive.

We went back up for healing, immediately after Communion. The last time I was here, I was a sobbing mess, in shock from lack of sleep and the ruin of the city, floored because people could suffer so much and still be beautiful. Yesterday, this experience was joyful. We were an arc of people stretching all the way across the altar, holding hands; it didn’t matter that many of us didn’t know each other. The musicians played "Were You There," which I thought was contrived for the occasion, but I lost myself in the music nonetheless. Bill went around and laid hands on each of us, prayed for us, anointed us. It wasn't the prayer I knew from school, but similar, and he varied it; he thanked God for my life and ministry. He wore a ring that held the chrism, which I didn't see until he was almost right next to me; I couldn't figure out what he was doing with his thumb on top of people's heads.

The closing hymn was "This Little Light of Mine," presumably so we could clap (we all were) and not need the words. The deacon sang what I know as the Easter dismissal, with the many-syllabled Alleluia. Then we went next door for dinner.

There are signs above every exit in this complex, reading

You Are Now Entering Your Mission Field.

I love that. It’s so very true.

Dinner was spaghetti, veggies, salad, and chocolate; certainly adequate for the occasion. The musicians played slow, sleepy jazz; it was fun to listen to. I made a couple of good contacts; an ER doc who moved down here from Maryland with her partner (also an ER doc) after the storm, to help out, and a nurse-practitioner from the Mobile Medical Mission, who's also a Jesuit priest. Couldn't actually interview them there; it was too noisy/busy. (The parish hall was packed.) I had e-mailed Bill and told him I could get myself to church just fine, but would need help getting home. He introduced me to my ride, Diana, an RN who was running the blood-pressure checks. I mentioned to him that I was curious about All Souls. He took me aside to tell me what he knew, which admittedly wasn’t much.

All Souls is a mission to the 9th Ward, meeting in what I think is a converted Walgreen’s on St. Claude. Nobody seems to know that much about them. The priest-in-charge is Nigerian; I’ve forgotten his name. Bill wasn't positive when the services are. Buses are still really dicey out there; I may not be able to go, though I want to.

[I need to figure out how to get myself to St. Paul’s, Lakeview. The homecoming center that used to be at St. Luke’s, is now there. It is, or was, an upscale neighborhood—flooding changed everything for lots of people.]

We talked more about Nashotah, Anglo-Catholicism, church politics, whatever. I think I carry a certain seminarian charm; I’ve only met this priest once, e-mailed a small handful of times, and we caught up like friends. I'm also going to interview him; not the least because of the "murder board" outside. (There's a giant white board on an outside wall of the church, listing in black marker all the murders in this city from last April through now. It speaks volumes about honoring every human life.) He gave me a hug goodbye, and left to run some errands. I went back into the parish hall, and listened to music until it was time to go home.

Diana takes Jim (Jesuit NP) home every week; he lives near me and can't drive. She was living in New Orleans East, which was pretty much universally flooded. She said they only got three inches of water—which caused 3 ½ feet of mold. So they're living near her parents, 30 miles west of the city, and working on their house when they have time. Her parents had lived in Gentilly; their house had taken 5 ½ feet of water. (That's exactly as tall as me.) They gutted it, sold it, moved out of town. The entire extended family evacuated to Diana’s parents’ house, and stayed there for six weeks after the storm.

This city is sloshing to the brim with stories. Sometimes all you have to do is ask, "Are you from here?"

Strange day, and clarifying

I had another day to get my bearings, yesterday, and so I did. I’ve been sticking to the streetcar line and the Quarter since I got here; reading the prep work Courtney gave me in coffee shops, exploring well-traveled areas, having fun. I’ve been needing to go back to the disaster zone, and see it again for myself.

I took the streetcar down to the Quarter; the tracks run right past this house, but the closest place I can catch it is four blocks away, at the current end of the St. Charles line. Got off at Canal, and walked. Lunch was gumbo from a café in the French Market; it was a huge bowl of muddy-looking seafood and veggie soup, over rice. Slightly spicy; very good.

I walked all the way through the Quarter and rented a bicycle. As soon as I turned right on St. Claude, I saw signs of the storm, in peeled paint, broken windows, and school marquees reading “Welcome Back 2005.” Before I went even a block, I was out of the bustling, intact French Quarter and into an unrecovered neighborhood.

I rode all the way into the Lower 9th, using the less imposing of the two possible bridges to get there. I had my camera, but I didn't take pictures; I felt very conspicuous, and uneasy stopping. Courtney had told me to stick to the main drag, but I'd never intended to strictly follow that advice. I rode up some side streets, a block or two farther than Claiborne. They looked exactly as they did when I was here nine months ago. I could look down a street and see no signs of anybody. There were lots of areas still deserted, overgrown; piles of debris everywhere, broken houses standing as they had since the storm. On one block, there were two men outside working, with heavy equipment; one moving trash, the other earth. There was a house in the middle of another block, freshly painted a festive Day-Glo green with purple trim, family names proudly displayed above the door. (It reminded me of what Latino families do at home.) On either side of it stood trembling houses with overgrown yards, and no signs of life.

I saw a stand of godawful hideous pink tents, and rode over to investigate. I’d read about them on the web; it’s this Brangelina project. There stood a rickety, makeshift observation tower; I locked the bike to a stop sign and climbed up. 150 house-shaped tents, three blocks or so all the way to the levee, and farther on either side of me. It's designed to be a sustainable-development project; I can't argue with the basic idea, as I do believe in it. But the tents were a color a friend once described as "Silence=Death pink." They seemed unfittingly gaudy. Acrophobia told me to get the hell back down. I did, and noticed a "driving tour" set up around it. (There were people around; I wouldn't have stopped, had I been alone.) Let alone the pink; it just felt so creepy, freaky, wrong. This may be a bulldozed and blown away section of the neighborhood—but the whole time I was in the Lower 9th, I felt like I was staring at the grave of a community. I could almost see the silence. Driving—or biking—around and gawking felt profoundly disrespectful and wrong.

If you come here, I implore you—take the stories home, and tell them. Use the time that you have spent here. Don’t just look, and go on with your lives.

On Tennessee St., I rode past a FEMA trailer with posters, clippings, and a giant white board: memorials of Robert Green’s mother and granddaughter who died in the storm. I'd read about them in the NOLA paper online. (The child's name was Shanai Green, called “NaiNai”; she was 3. Robert had lost his grip on her, and she slipped off a roof and drowned.) I read the memorials, stood there for awhile. Muttered to myself that I needed to talk to people. It’s what I came here to do, and I’m anxious to do the work, not just watch.

I got back on the bike, and immediately rode past a man sitting quietly in a chair next to the trailer. I hadn't even seen him.

I circled in the street twice, wanting to go back and apologize, but I lost my nerve. I felt so guilty about not seeing/talking to him, and being a disaster tourist, that I thought for awhile about calling a priest friend and confessing. (Not just telling him how weird it was; I wrote that in an e-mail when I got home. I felt like I needed to honest-to-God confess my own complete inability even to see another human being.) It was that intense; that piercing.

I rode back across the bridge, not chased by any trucks this time, and returned the bike. I’d been out just under two hours. The clerk asked if I’d been around the Quarter; I mumbled a vague reply.

As soon as I did that, and was walking through the Quarter again, it felt as if the experience I'd just had in the Lower 9th had happened to somebody else. In a different world.

I walked back through the Quarter to Jackson Square and the river. I stuck my fingers in the Mississippi, for Paul and Orthodox Mimi, for whom today is Theophany. (Paul celebrates Epiphany, too.) My hand came out slightly sticky. I did something vaguely like praying; watched the water for awhile. I walked back through the park and listened to musicians, relaxing. Mindful of being back before dark, I walked back to Canal St., and caught the streetcar home.

I don't feel as guilty anymore, but awkward. I know I'm not here to stare at people's pain, but to bring these stories home—but yesterday I was a disaster tourist, through and through. I felt so white, so privileged, so innocent. I’ve never been through that kind of hell. I’ve never been forced to leave my home, without the means to return. I’ve never returned to a place that still looks, sounds, and feels like a nuclear wasteland. Meanwhile I'm thanking God that I've been here before, know what I'm getting into, and know I can approach the people I'm interviewing with respect, that's not complicated by my jaw clattering quite so noisily on the floor.

I’m also feeling fatalistic—in a way I hesitate to share, since I’m working in solidarity with the people here. I don't know how that's ever going to be a neighborhood, again. I’ll be thrilled, if and when I’m proven wrong.

I want very much to talk about this; I need people to process with, even before I start working with actual human beings. Yesterday, my usual suspects were otherwise occupied: taking the GOE, sleeping off a sickness, working hard on a project, doing other stuff. I’m feeling really alone with what I’m witnessing. I can mention it to Courtney tomorrow; we’re supposed to talk anyway, and I know she wants to support me. I chose not to interrupt her writing. Mainly, I need to get past my guilt. I’m not a New Orleanian. I wasn’t here. I couldn’t have changed the culture, erased classism/racism, kept the levees intact, made a safe place to come home to. And though I looked for all the world like a tourist yesterday, I don’t intend to be. I’m here to gather people’s stories, to get them out beyond this city in such a way that people pay attention to themselves and their own surroundings, and don’t let this social devastation happen anywhere else, again.

Not sure what today will bring, other than church—which by now is a spiritual need. I was up several times in the night with a cranky digestive system—whose mood has barely improved. I think it’ll be a day to lie low, read, research, catch up with myself. This trip is less intense than the last, so far—although it’s longer, and once I’m really immersed in my project I’ll think I was nuts for saying that. This city is haunting, just the same.

On a mission

I meant to catch up yesterday, but I didn’t, except in the comments over at MadPriest’s.

I met the people I’m going to be working with, yesterday. Courtney is Strategic Director of EDOLA’s Office of Disaster Response. She landed here because of her work in NYC after 9/11. She’s writing a book contrasting responses to 9/11 and Katrina; I’ll be interviewing survivors for her. Shakoor works part-time for EDOLA and part-time for, I think, another housing program. He came over from Common Ground, where the four of us worked last spring. One of the things he’s into is stopping the violence in the city, and bringing hope to the youth. I’m going to be helping him with this website.

Or so far as I understand it, anyway. They took me to a Lebanese restaurant a few blocks from where I’m staying, and filled up my brain. Courtney gave me a CD and a pile of reading to do, for background and to get me started thinking. I’m to immerse myself in this, start brainstorming interview questions, and call her Friday.

Then they took me downtown to meet diocesan staff. The bishop has been at the forefront of the struggle to keep affordable housing. He was so friendly—everyone was. ODR’s new director is a native New Orleanian; she was working with a Catholic agency in Nigeria when the storm hit. She asked herself what it meant to be from a place, and what sense it made to be working for peace and justice overseas when her home needed it so badly. So she’s been back here, for two years. She’s direct, focused, and on top of what she’s doing. The case management coordinator came over from the juvenile justice system. Everyone I met was so friendly, and so knowledgeable, and organized. I sat in on at least two conversations I didn’t understand a word of; I’m going to have to learn the local housing alphabet soup.

I’ll have sporadic access to a car; either Courtney’s, or a truck owned by the diocese. Probably not until early next week, though. I’m going to be mostly doing fieldwork, after this week. Today’s project: take the streetcar (the tracks run right in front of this house), look around, and do my reading. The house next door to EDOLA contains housing offices for several programs they’re connected with; there’s no extra office space, but I can set up at the dining room. I work much better with people around me, than I do completely alone.

I want to play tourist a little bit, too.

Safely in NOLA

Exhausted. In a house attached to St. Andrew's Episcopal Church, that EDOLA uses for volunteers. Well taken care of, by a family of volunteers from Minneapolis who showed me around, made my bed, and found me some leftover Vietnamese for dinner. (Food, not people.) Feeling very loved by friends, both in blogland and at home. And, caught up on Jake.

Mimi, I'll call you when I get some sense of my schedule.

Noisy here; fireworks. Will get louder before it stops, I'm sure. Still, now I can sleep.

Goodnight. Happy New Year.

Traveling, and moderating comments for awhile

I'm leaving in a few hours, to spend the next month in New Orleans. I'll be doing a project with the Episcopal Diocese of Louisiana. Details to follow, as I get immersed in it.

As excited as I am about this, and as much as I've been wanting to do it since my first trip there last March, this is the first extended trip I've ever taken alone. I don't so much fear for my physical safety as, well, I'm just generally scared. I'll be fine once I get settled, and working; right now, I've only a vague idea of what I'm getting into.

What compels me to return to NOLA isn't the touristy fun stuff; it's the people. I'm going, so that I can listen to survivors' stories, and share them.

I have no idea what my internet access will be like while I'm gone. I've been very public at Jake's place, and while I haven't experienced any sort of trolling yet, I don't want to leave my own space vulnerable to idiots. So, I'll be moderating comments, at least for the next while.

Please pray for me, for the city of New Orleans, the people of the Episcopal Diocese of San Joaquin, and for all who are marginalized, mistreated, or exiled. And please pray for those who wield their power in damaging ways, as well. Pray for all of us, and be good to one another. Thank you.

Two years after Katrina

Talking about NOLA, again

Last night, the Younger Adults group at my parish got together for dinner in the Castro. My rector mentioned that he was speaking about Katrina today at a UTO function at St. Timothy's, Danville, and asked me to come and share my experiences. With one day's notice, I tweaked what I had already prepared, and added a few more stories.

I am loving doing this. I have really found a piece of my calling.

I went to New Orleans because my friend Michael invited me. What I found there changed me forever. I met God, and God’s people, there.

I went with three other CDSP students, over our Spring Break, during the last week of March. We worked with a local grassroots nonprofit. Michael gutted houses, which is still the most needed physical task there, as taking people’s houses apart from the inside, down to the studs, preserves people’s property rights should they want to return. Judy, Vivian, and I divided our time between a women’s shelter and a distribution center, in the 9th Ward. We met people whose stories will stay with us forever.

We met Joanne, a cargo worker at the Port of New Orleans. She was staying in a three-bedroom house with 16 other women. Her second home since Katrina was condemned, two weeks before I met her. The storm pushed sea water underneath the city. Nineteen months later, the water was still underground. The water corrodes the pipes, ultimately destroying the plumbing. The problem is extensive, and costly to fix. Joanne has been all over the world. New Orleans is her favorite place. She loves the city—but she struggles to survive there, after the storm.

We saw signs everywhere that read, “We are rebuilding. We are New Orleans. We are coming home.” The more I learned about the geographic realities and the political situation there, the more that made me wonder. But many could not afford to leave. Some who did evacuate are coming back. New Orleans just last week passed the halfway point of their pre-Katrina population. I’ve read the writings of some evacuees who stayed in Houston or Memphis or wherever they landed. They miss New Orleans so much. It’s not just a city on a random map of the U.S. It’s a culture unto itself. And it is their home.

Joanne led us to Bill, the rector of St. Anna’s Episcopal Church. Joanne had told us that she was drunk for a year after Katrina, and that this church had led her back to God. We attended Eucharist on a Wednesday night, drawn both by her witness and by the Mission to Musicians benefit potluck they host every week. Bill said that he, along with most other New Orleanians, simmered with anger underneath the surface. But when I asked him what he would have me take back to California, he said to me, “Peace. Hope. And send us money.” Musicians in New Orleans are craftspeople. They lost half their income in one single day. Churches there are very active in relief work. They are working to help the people, and the culture, survive.

I remember sitting in church that night, sobbing. We’d been in the 9th Ward for several days, meeting and talking with the people, hearing their stories. Sitting in this church, being part of the service, listening to the music, it all crashed down on me. I realized, people can suffer so much, and still be beautiful. I had several experiences there that confirmed a calling in me to work in forsaken places. I spent a lot of time there honestly horrified. This night is when I really fell in love with this city.

We took a day to play, and had lunch in the French Quarter at the New Orleans School of Cooking. When they found out what we’d been doing, wealthy locals out touristing thanked us just as whole-heartedly as the residents of the 9th Ward had, just for noticing them. The chef thanked the out-of-town tourists as deeply as he thanked us. If any of you are thinking of going to New Orleans, please do. It’s important that you witness to the devastation in that city. It is also important to go and have fun there. There’s a lot to make you think, in New Orleans. There’s also a lot to love. The Quarter is still a really fun place. Tourism has always been important, and that’s even more true now. Putting money into their economy helps them survive, and it will help them rebuild.

I thought I knew what poverty was. I didn’t. No amount of reading, or seeing photographs, could have prepared me for block after block after block after block of empty, flood-damaged houses, or for being out driving, for hours, in absolutely no traffic. Nothing could have prepared me for the shock of standing in the kitchen at the shelter, being shown a map of the city, and coming to really understand the geographic, economic, and political causes of this flood that took six weeks to pump dry. I came face to face with a deep sense of forgottenness in the people. Volunteers have come to their city to help them. The government has not. I met so many people who were so poor and yet so faithful, who lived with their souls almost visible. They were so grateful to be seen, to be spoken to, to be helped, to be remembered. We were a sign of hope to them; a sign of God’s presence. They were a sign of God’s presence to us.

Going to New Orleans changed me forever. I have a new commitment to mission, a new understanding of the political and economic forces in my own country, and a new empathy for people in all third-world situations. I had to keep consciously reminding myself, "I am in a major American city," because it did not look or feel like that. I’m planning to go back in January, to do an oral history project in connection with the Diocese of Louisiana. I urge you to go, if you can, to help out, to meet the people, to experience the place. Keep thinking about them; keep praying for them. Thank you for what you have given already.

Thank you for listening.

Why the Louisiana Coast Matters

Scout Prime at First Draft has asked bloggers to link to this piece in the Washington Post by John Barry, the author of Rising Tide, the story of the 1927 flood of the Mississippi River Valley.

I link it here because it's important, and because Grandmere Mimi asked us to.

Full text of the article follows:

Our Coast to Fix -- or Lose
By John M. Barry
Saturday, May 12, 2007; Page A15

There has been much debate in the past 20 months over protecting Louisiana from another lethal hurricane, but nearly all of it has been conducted without any real understanding of the geological context. Congress and the Bush administration need to recognize six facts that define the national interest.

Fact 1: The Gulf of Mexico once reached north to Cape Girardeau, Mo. But the Mississippi River carries such an enormous sediment load that, combined with a falling sea level, it deposited enough sediment to create 35,000 square miles of land from Cape Girardeau to the present mouth of the river.

This river-created land includes the entire coast, complete with barrier islands, stretching from Mississippi to Texas. But four human interventions have interfered with this natural process; three of them that benefit the rest of the country have dramatically increased the hurricane threat to the Gulf Coast.

Fact 2: Acres of riverbank at a time used to collapse into the river system providing a main source of sediment. To prevent this and to protect lives and property, engineers stopped such collapses by paving hundreds of miles of the river with riprap and even concrete, beginning more than 1,000 miles upriver -- including on the Ohio, Missouri and other tributaries -- from New Orleans. Reservoirs for flood protection also impound sediment. These and other actions deprive the Mississippi of 60 to 70 percent of its natural sediment load, starving the coast.

Fact 3: To stop sandbars from blocking shipping at the mouth of the Mississippi, engineers built jetties extending more than two miles out into the Gulf of Mexico. This engineering makes Tulsa, Kansas City, Minneapolis, Cincinnati, Pittsburgh and other cities into ports with direct access to the ocean, greatly enhancing the nation's economy. The river carries 20 percent of the nation's exports, including 60 percent of its grain exports, and the river at New Orleans is the busiest port in the world. But the jetties prevent any of the sediment remaining in the river from replenishing the Louisiana and Mississippi coasts and barrier islands; instead, the jetties drop the sediment off the continental shelf.

Fact 4: Levees that prevent river flooding in Louisiana and Mississippi interfere with the replenishment of the land locally as well.

Fact 5: Roughly 30 percent of the country's domestic oil and gas production comes from offshore Louisiana, and to service that production the industry created more than 10,000 miles of canals and pipelines through the marsh.

Every inch of those 10,000-plus miles lets saltwater penetrate, and eat away at, the coast. So energy production has enormously accelerated what was a slow degradation, transforming a long-term problem into an immediate crisis. The deprivation of sediment is like moving a block of ice from the freezer to the sink, where it begins to melt; the effect of the canals and pipelines is like attacking that ice with an ice pick, breaking it up.

As a result, 2,100 square miles of coastal land and barrier islands have melted into the Gulf of Mexico. This land once served as a buffer between the ocean and populated areas in Louisiana and part of Mississippi, protecting them during hurricanes. Each land mile over which a hurricane travels absorbs roughly a foot of storm surge.

The nation as a whole gets nearly all the benefits of engineering the river. Louisiana and some of coastal Mississippi get 100 percent of the costs. Eastern New Orleans (including the lower Ninth Ward) and St. Bernard Parish -- nearly all of which, incidentally, is at or above sea level -- exemplify this allocation of costs and benefits. Three man-made shipping canals pass through them, creating almost no jobs there but benefiting commerce throughout the country. Yet nearly all the 175,000 people living there saw their homes flooded not because of any natural vulnerability but because of levee breaks.

Fact 6: Without action, land loss will continue, and it will increasingly jeopardize populated areas, the port system and energy production. This would be catastrophic for America. Scientists say the problem can be solved, even with rising sea levels, but that we have only a decade to begin addressing it in a serious way or the damage may be irreversible.

Despite all this and President Bush's pledge from New Orleans in September 2005 that "we will do what it takes" to help people rebuild, a draft White House cuts its own recommendation of $2 billion for coastal restoration to $1 billion while calling for an increase in the state's contribution from the usual 35 percent to 50 percent. Generating benefits to the nation is what created the problem, and the nation needs to solve it. Put simply: Why should a cab driver in Pittsburgh or Tulsa pay to fix Louisiana's coast? Because he gets a stronger economy and lower energy costs from it, and because his benefits created the problem. The failure of Congress and the president to act aggressively to repair the coastline at the mouth of the Mississippi River could threaten the economic vitality of the nation. Louisiana, one of the poorest states, can no longer afford to underwrite benefits for the rest of the nation.

John M. Barry is the author of "Rising Tide" and secretary of the Southeast Louisiana Flood Protection Authority East.

NOLA story project--good news

I was instant-messaging last night with the priest we met there. I told him that my advisor said I could get cross-cultural credit (required) if I go back in January and do oral histories. I need to find funding--but what I most need is a place to crash for that month.

He was excited about it; he gave me names of people to contact, and told me that if those don't work, to talk again with him.

It was probably a five-minute IM session. It made this idea really feasible. I can cover food for myself, if I need to, and I can get cheap airfare--particularly if I fly out of Sacramento instead of Oakland. (Without yet asking the person I will ask, I'm sure she'd drive me.) Grant organizations don't often give funds for transportation, anyway. Housing can be really expensive. If I don't have to worry about that, then this is easy. Once I get there, I can use what remains of their public transit system, or rent a bicycle.

In other, tangentially related news: Some of my words about NOLA may be about to be published in an unlikely place. I don't want to say where, before it happens, because the person who wants to publish them does not walk in lockstep with her organization, and her job's been under threat.

I told my friend Molly about it--she was my mentor last year, and is still an Aidanite. After she got done laughing, she said to me, "I knew as soon as I met you, that you were going to be shining the light into dark places."

I asked her how she knew.

"I don't know; how do we know anything? It just pours out of you."

That really hasn't been something I'm aware of. Maybe it should be. Either way, I can live on this for weeks.

Go.

The following is a talk I gave at St. John the Baptist Episcopal Church in Lodi, CA this morning. They are sending a group to New Orleans in June. The rector, an old friend, asked me to speak of my experiences there.

I went to New Orleans because my friend Michael invited me. What I found there changed me forever. I met God, and God’s people, there.

I went with three other seminary students, over our Spring Break, during the last week of March. We worked with a local grassroots nonprofit. Michael gutted houses, which is still the most needed physical task there, as taking people’s houses apart from the inside, down to the studs, preserves people’s property rights should they want to return. Judy, Vivian, and I divided our time between a women’s shelter and a distribution center, in the 9th Ward. We met people whose stories will stay with us forever.

We met Joanne, a cargo worker at the Port of New Orleans. She was staying in a three-bedroom house with 16 other women. Her second home since Katrina was condemned, two weeks before I met her. The storm pushed sea water underneath the city. 19 months later, the water is still underground. The water corrodes the pipes, ultimately destroying the plumbing. The problem is too extensive, and costly, to fix. Joanne has been all over the world. New Orleans is her favorite place. She loves the city—but she is finding it impossible to live there.

Joanne led us to Bill, the rector of St. Anna’s Episcopal Church. Joanne had told us that she was drunk for a year after Katrina, and that this church had led her back to God. We attended Eucharist on a Wednesday night, drawn both by her witness and by the Mission to Musicians benefit potluck they host every week. Bill said that he, along with most other New Orleanians, simmered with anger underneath the surface. But when I asked him what he would have me take back to California, the first things he said were peace and hope.

We took a day to play, and had lunch in the French Quarter at the New Orleans School of Cooking. When they found out what we’d been doing, wealthy locals out touristing thanked us just as whole-heartedly as the residents of the 9th Ward had, just for noticing them. The chef thanked the out-of-town tourists as deeply as he thanked us. It’s important that you go and witness to the devastation in that city. It is also important to go and have fun there. There’s a lot to make you think, in New Orleans. There’s also a lot to love there. The Quarter is a really fun place. Tourism has always been important, and that’s even more true now. Putting money into their economy helps them survive, and it will help them rebuild.

I thought I knew what poverty was. I didn’t. No amount of reading, or seeing photographs, could have prepared me for block after block after block after block of empty, flood-damaged houses. Nothing could have prepared me for the shock of standing in someone’s kitchen, and coming to really understand the geographic, economic, and political causes of this flood that took six weeks to pump dry. Nothing could have prepared me for meeting so many people who were so poor and yet so faithful, who lived with their souls almost visible. They were so grateful to be seen, to be spoken to, to be helped, to be remembered. We were a sign of hope to them; a sign of God’s presence. They were a sign of God’s presence to us.

Going to New Orleans changed me forever. I have a new commitment to mission, a new understanding of the political and economic forces in my own country, and a new empathy for people in all third-world situations. I know that I’ll go back; I’m already planning to. I urge you to go, to help out, to meet the people, to experience the place. I’ll be at the back table. I have more stories, and I have pictures. Please come talk to me.

Thank you.