As I tried to write an Easter message to you on this day when we have just returned from our work trip to New Orleans, I couldn’t quite figure out where to begin. There is just so much to say that everything seems somehow inadequate. New Orleans is a mess. The two devastating storms happened 18 months ago, and the city has barely made a dent in its recovery. Our work team from Leesburg was a part of a blitz building week with the Hosanna Industries from the Pittsburgh area—six houses, five days, 200 volunteers. We did so much. We worked so hard. There is so much yet to do.

We stayed at the First Presbyterian Church of New Orleans. It is an impressive old Gothic building with a long history in the city. The building is still standing, although one of the towers from over the front doors is now spread out in pieces on what used to be a lawn. And, there is this one masonry spire hanging precariously back over the roof. The pews have just come back from the refinishers. They are beautiful—shiny and perfect—but they are not yet firmly attached to the old stone floor and are hazardous and unstable to sit on. The carpeting from the aisles has been ripped out, leaving ugly green patches on the floor. The intricately carved pulpit is raised up high off the chancel floor and was undamaged, but the pedestal on which it rests is white and cracked and ruined. A lectern was down on the main floor, and floated in the flood waters; leaving a diagonal water mark across its entire length. The Communion Table is in pieces out in the hallway—probably not recoverable, but too precious to throw away. However, the gigantic marble Baptismal Font seems to have been absolutely unaffected by all that water. The magnificent pipe organ was up very high and was spared from the flood, but the organist has moved away, and the pastor’s wife is doing a heroic job of playing it for Sunday services. The choir loft holds 40, but there was just one soloist singing last week—a very small voice echoing through the cavernous space of the mostly empty sanctuary. We slept on air mattresses in the newly carpeted Sunday School rooms. They have no need of the rooms as there are no longer many children. Most schools are still closed, so most of those with children have not returned. Everything was dirty — they have no custodial help. Everything was disorganized—they have no administrative help. And the pastor is so tired—he’s done so much, and there is still so much to do. And did I mention the smell? You remember the smell of wet carpet? The entire building—maybe the entire city—is saturated with that smell.

I think that First Presbyterian is perhaps a metaphor for the whole city. Some parts were high enough to be spared the damage of the standing water. Some parts have been lovingly restored. Some parts, even beloved parts, will have to be discarded. Too many people have just gone away. Recovery will be slow. The people will need help for a very long time to keep from being swallowed up in discouragement. No matter how much they do, there is so much more yet to be done.

But, we are a people who believe in resurrection—and that is the only place to begin. The bright blue Presbyterian Disaster Assistance T-Shirts proclaim that “Out of chaos, there is hope.’ When the women went to the tomb on Easter morning, they couldn’t imagine that their world could ever be put back together again. A few nails and a cross had snuffed out all their hope and the future seemed lost. But they were wrong. Our God would not leave us abandoned and forlorn. Our God could never leave us without hope, without a Savior. When they had hoped beyond every hope, God amazed us all with an empty tomb. We are an Easter people. Resurrection happened. Resurrection happens. Christ is alive and the Body of Christ continues to restore hope in a weary world—even in New Orleans.