I didn’t know about the earthquake until several hours after it happened. My son-in-law Boby is Haitian, and the last I had heard, he was with his parents in Port-au-Prince. It took a while to get through to my daughter Jennifer in Ireland, and I was relieved beyond description to hear that Boby and his son had flown to Washington, DC, a few days earlier and were safe. My relief was blended with hope and fear for other family members. Jennifer had heard that someone living in Mexico had been in contact with Boby’s father and that another family member’s home had been destroyed, but there was little real information.
Jennifer and I spoke only briefly so that she could resume trying to contact family, friends and colleagues in Haiti. After we hung up, my mind was filled with images: the narrow twisting streets of Port-au-Prince, lined with heavy walls and covered at the corners with street art—the tens of thousands of dwellings, some mansions, some no more than patched-together roofs, crammed together and filling the hillsides and valleys—children dressed in sparkling clean uniforms on their way to school—other children carrying gallon containers as they trudged past my daughter’s house to a water pipe at the top of the steep road. I heard once again the horns that drivers used to communicate in a city without traffic laws and with only a handful of traffic signals. I heard the cadence of Haitian Kreyol. And I heard the words I spoke in this pulpit two weeks ago after I asked where God was when Herod murdered all those other babies in Bethlehem. You may remember that I asked if angels like the one that warned Joseph had been sent to warn other parents. I asked if God cared about those children as well as the infant Jesus, or if the massacre of the innocents was simply an occasion when one man’s freedom of choice resulted in the triumph of evil.
When things go bad in our world, when bad things happen to good people, when seemingly senseless events destroy the lives of those we love or those whom we will never know, our most immediate, most human impulse is to cry to God for mercy. We want God to show up. We want God to act like the kind of God we want. We want a God we can count on to make things right. We want God to fix the horror. We want God to make it good again. And we want God to give us a promise that it won’t happen again.
But that doesn’t seem to be the way God works. The world works the way it works, and God will not erase the events of this past week. God will not take time back to the moment before the quake struck. As the days and weeks move on, God will not stop those who almost certainly will try to turn this disastrous event to their own advantage.
So, if God doesn’t act like the kind of God we want—the kind of God who fixes things the way we want, why do we pray?
I’d like to ask that question of the women who have been gathering in the dark plazas of Port-au-Prince to pray and sing hymns in the night. I’d like to ask that question of the person trapped in the rubble who told the search and rescue team: “You can’t help me. Go help someone else.” I’d like to ask that question of the Doctors without Borders who were the first responders, and of the Haitians who have worked day and night, digging with bare hands and any tool they can find to free those trapped in the rubble. I’d like to ask them that question, but I think I know at least part of the answer. We pray because God transforms us. We pray because God changes our experience of the way the world works. When we pray, when we open our hearts to the Holy, we somehow find strength to take the next step—to do what we don’t have the strength or will to do—to do what must be done. When we open our hearts to the Holy, we are drawn to live in ways that reflect God’s deepest hope for us. When we open our hearts to the Holy, we can hear the call to be God’s hands and voice in the world, the call to help those in distress, the call to comfort those who mourn. When we pray, we do not call God into our presence. When we pray, we bring ourselves and those for whom we pray into God’s presence. When we pray, we bring ourselves and those for whom we pray into God’s healing and wholeness.
In these last few days, I’ve been grateful as I’ve heard that our family in Haiti is safe, although several homes have been destroyed. I’ve grieved as I’ve learned of the losses among my family’s colleagues and friends. I’ve tried to wrap my head around the reality of so many lives being lost—so many families destroyed. I’ve learned that I’m not up to the task. I simply haven’t been able to take it all in. There are too many faces—too many stories—too many pictures to hold in one person’s mind and heart. As the days have passed, two images have become my focus. Two images—two very different images—both very Haitian. The first image is our Boby’s face. He is a man of deep emotion, absolute loyalty and strong resolve, and all of that is visible in his face. He returned to Port-au-Prince as soon as he could arrange transportation because he needs to be with his people—he needs to do whatever he can to help. For me, Boby’s is the face of all those who are rushing to help in all the ways that help is needed; when I pray for him, I’m praying for all those who are offering their hands to be God’s hands in the world.
The second image I hold is a tap-tap. Tap-taps are small van-sized buses that swarm all over Haiti. They’re brightly and elaborately painted and frequently have a religious slogan painted over the front windows: something like Grace of God or Merci St. Charles. My image is of a particular tap-tap which I saw in a painting at the home of one of Jennifer’s colleagues. The colors are vibrant, and the people in the painting are strong and forceful. Written across the front of the tap-tap are the words Christ Capable. Christ is able. Christ can do it. For me, the image of this tap-tap is an icon of the Haitian people. They have survived slavery, dictatorships, oppression of all sorts and conditions, wrenching poverty and, just two years ago, hurricanes that destroyed much of the growth that had happened in recent years. And as the people of Haiti struggle to survive this latest blow, we continue to hear stories of people caring for others, speaking up for those who can’t speak for themselves, carrying those who can’t walk, doing what they can with what they have. These people, formed and transformed by two centuries of struggle, are somehow continuing to turn water into wine. And so is Christ.
Thanks be to God.