There is a revival underway at the Methodist church in Carrefour. After a half day of travel and setting up camp, the music started. The music moved with such a power that I was drawn to it like a fly to sugar. I had to see the experience that I could hear so clearly. I found myself weeping at the beauty of it. The power of the Spirit to transform even the despair of the Hatian disaster into the hopeful song of God's transforming power. The children, so many children, sang the songs of hope for a future better than the squalor of today.
I simply had no idea how bad things here are. Even as I write this, I realize that the small court yard I'm sitting in has literally half a dozen or more people sleeping in every shadow. They simply have no home. Everything they had, which likely wasn't much, is gone. They are reduced to seeking refuge in the courtyard of a church. May God provide a safe refuge for them! My mind could have never imagined a humanitarian crisis on a scale this great. There are no FEMA trailers here, only cities of tents as far as the eye can see. The cries of infants in the early morning hours and the sounds of diesel motors for those privileged enough to have work.
The power of their worship comes out of a desperate need for God's intervention into the hell of their lives. May I never complain about anything again. Ever!
And yet, in worship, they seem more blessed than I. The love and grace of God at work in people's lives was amazing. the songs and the sermon placed let me see the Spirit at work. In the desert of despair blooms a flower of hope. Will I be able to join God's effort to restore Haiti? Can I find away to give more of my money and time to help alleviate the suffering of Haitians? How can I become informed enough to help these people and join God's response to their faithfulness? What will my worship be?
After the halfway point on my walk this morning, heading back towards home, I saw something you don’t see every day. It was a mockingbird chasing a hawk. The hawk was probably five times the size of the mockingbird. But the chase was all in the attitude. The mockingbird was squawking and chirping in a language that would make a sailor blush. The hawk wanted no part of it and was trying the flee but could not get away from the mockingbird. What had the hawk done? What had agitated the mockingbird so much? Had it been a transgression? Was the hawk just too close for comfort? Or did the two have a history. I was walking a bit later than normal and had not yet seen this routine. The unusual scene distracted and entertained me as I reflected on a myriad of permutations. As I’ve felt like the one receiving the squawk most of my life as a leader, I was surprised at how proud I was of the little mockingbird. Maybe ...
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