Finding God in Haiti

By Patricia Templeton, rector of St. Dunstan’s Episcopal Church

“Then there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake.”

                                                                                     --1 Kings 19:11

This verse of scripture has been in my mind ever since the devastating earthquake hit Haiti last week.

In the story from First Kings, God tells the prophet Elijah to stand on a mountain and wait for the Lord to pass by. As Elijah waits, the mountain is buffeted by strong wind, an earthquake, and a fire. But God, the Bible says, was not in any of these natural disasters.

Then there is “a sound of sheer silence,” and in that silence God is present.

In the days following the horrific quake that shook the poorest country in our hemisphere to its core causing untold death and destruction, faithful people of all religions have asked, “Where was God in the earthquake?”

Some, like the so-called Christian broadcaster Pat Robertson, have suggested that God intentionally caused the earthquake because of Haiti’s sins.

Such talk is blasphemous, insulting to God and to all who believe in a loving creator. A God who would willfully cause such anguish and suffering would be a cruel and sadistic tyrant worthy only of contempt, not worship. That is not the God in whom I believe.

So where was God in the earthquake?

God was present in the brief, stunned, sheer silence that followed the earth’s rumbling. God was present in the cries of the wounded and dying. Their cries were God’s cries; their suffering is God’s suffering.

God was present in those who immediately went to work trying to rescue their family, friends, colleagues, and complete strangers. God was present in those who shared scarce food and water with those who have none.

God is present in the rubble and the unmarked graves of the thousands who died.

As news of the quake spread from the tiny island across the world, God was present in the relief workers from every corner of the globe who began packing their bags to go help their brothers and sisters in Haiti.

God was present in the journalists who headed for airports so that they could bring the story of Haiti’s suffering to those who can help. God was present in governments that mobilized for action.

 God is present in those who reached for their credit cards, checkbooks and cell phones to send money to the relief effort. God is present in the young boy who watched the news, then went to his room and came out with $20 to send to the children in Haiti.

God is present in the prayers offered up in churches, synagogues, mosques and temples around the world. God is present with all who grieve and mourn and wait for news of those they love.

Seeing God’s presence in all of these places does not answer the question of why the earthquake happened, or why the people of Haiti have been inflicted with so much suffering for so long.

We cannot finally know why God created a world in which so much suffering exists – from natural disasters like earthquakes, hurricanes, and tsunamis, and from the human evils of war and violence, corruption, neglect and abuse.

 But we do know that such evil and suffering are not what God intends for God’s people.

When humans suffer, God suffers; when our hearts break, God’s heart breaks. 

God was not in the earthquake. But God has been present ever since and will continue in the weeks, and months, and years ahead to be with the people of Haiti, and urges us to be with them, too.            

Taking a Wrong Turn

It was raining and dark and I don’t drive well at night under the best circumstances. Somehow in the dark, the lights in traffic spray out and go blurry in my eyes. I know I need to get my glasses redone for night driving—but that would require bifocals and my reading prescription is just perfect as it is. So of course, when we were driving last night, despite the GPS lady that Wolfie insisted we take, I went too far on I-20 way on the other side of town. When I realized my mistake I got off the interstate so I could backtrack, I took a wrong turn around the Fulton Industrial Boulevard exit.

I have been in that area during the day. There’s an airport over there. Gas stations. Ugly industrial-looking buildings. The GPS lady told me to turn right, which made no sense to me—I was born in this city—so I turned left. “Mom, this is a bad street, this doesn’t look good. We need to get out of here,” Wolfie said nervously.

He pointed out the women standing under a street lamp, despite the rain, despite the dark, with their shirts open, exposing more than anyone would want to see—or should see. It made me feel cold just to look at them. “Mom, are they prostitutes?”

I have never actually known a prostitute and it’s probably not a good thing to judge people by appearances, but I knew instinctively that these shivery women, who were dangerously calling out to each passing car—including us—were indeed practitioners of the world’s oldest profession. “I’m pretty sure they are,” I said.

Still, I figured if I kept driving I would find my way without the GPS lady, a recognizable street, a landmark. Nothing. We were on a side street, like a cave, the further we went, the darker it became. First nervousness set in. Then fear. No longer were the people on the roadside helpless, sad women, whose life took a wrong turn who knows where, now we saw men, who wore stocking caps and floppy coats covered in big, deep pockets. They gave us reprimanding looks: “You don’t belong here.” We didn’t actually see any bad-evil-doing. It was more what we saw in their eyes, like a glaze where violence and hatred had pooled together.

Well, we found our way out, after about 10 minutes. My stupidity, of course, has made the rounds on the family phone tree. My eldest son, Vincent, has called twice this morning from Naples, Fla., to hear the details. Wolfie has chided me to no end. “I told you not to turn there!”

And this morning—although I’ve missed church AND Sunday School—my absolute favorite part of the week—we are safe. We are in our warm house in Avondale. Wolfie is lying on the sofa reading philosophy for school. And I am drinking a cup of coffee, sitting here by the window, in my fuzzy robe.

“Those prostitutes were yelling at us,” Wolfie reminded me again a minute ago, perhaps hoping that I, his mother, can make sense of what we saw. Unsaid: why isn’t anyone helping them?

“I know,” I offer weakly. “I just don’t think they’d be interested in doing the kind of work I might have for them—house work, yard work.”

I cannot get the image of those women out of my mind. Even this morning, they’re still stumbling in the dark, immodestly exposed, wet, cold, in danger. I have seen them and while I will pray and think good thoughts for them, I know they need more. And I feel helpless because I don’t know what that “more” is and I know that providing that “more” is completely beyond me.

As I contemplate the problem, I remember what I heard at the Council of the Diocese that I attended in November with Patricia and Maggie and Laura and Renee. It was in a committee that Maggie and I sat in on—to debate and approve or table a resolution to oppose and prevent sex trafficking of children in Atlanta. The room at St. Philip was packed, and as the magnitude of the problem became clear—some 200 to 300 young girls are exploited in Georgia every month--the sentiment of several people in the room shifted to the idea that the problem was so complicated, so overwhelming, so beyond comprehension, that the resolution needed study. It should be re-crafted and brought back next year for a vote, several voices said.

Maggie Harney, the priest who runs Martha & Mary’s Place at St. Dunstan’s, quickly lost patience. “We can’t afford to wait another year while these children are in harm’s way!” she told the committee, with an intensity and immovability that wasn’t up for challenge.

I was sitting by Maggie, immediately proud of her tenacity, awed by her fierce compassion for thousands of children, perhaps not even a single one of which she will ever meet. Simply put, Maggie was a pit bull in a room where there were a lot of poodles.

Eventually language was crafted that said the Bishop should appoint a committee to study the problem and find the next best steps for Diocese to help.

Now I don’t know where the Bishop is with this project at this point. But I will mention this—in the committee, we learned about the Atlanta Urban Internship Program, a ministry of the Diocese that works to oppose the commercial sexual exploitation of children in this city through education and direct intervention. For instance, the interns assist with programs at Covenant House, a shelter for runaways. There is training involved to help these girls, who have been deeply abused physically, spiritually and mentally.

I don’t know what the success rate is to help these children so that they don’t grow up to become the sad, hopeless specters that Wolfie and I happened upon last night. But I do believe that even speaking up—like Maggie did that day—can make a difference. To contemplate, to study, to remember the people that touch us when we take wrong turns--even from the relatively safety of a locked car--I think, is also important. As our Presiding Bishop is want to remind us--each human being is made in the image of God.

Taking Faith to Work

On at least a couple of occasions when I’ve had to miss a vestry meeting or church as a result of work—the response from Patricia has been basically it’s unfortunate when work gets in the way of life.

This morning in Sunday School we were talking about not how work gets in the way of our faith but how our faith gets in the way of our work. Or maybe not how it gets in the way of work but how it manifests itself, if it carries over and what it means to take the values we discuss and practice on Sunday at church into the other six days of the week.

It can mean a lot of things. For instance, can you live a life of faith and still be able to take advantage of other people in the process of securing your livelihood? Can you feel love and compassion for the colleague who not only gets under your skin, but may even wish you ill? Can you love your enemy? And what’s more, do you have the courage to stand up to a boss or employer who directs you to hurt another person as a part of your job? Will you fire someone under false pretenses because your boss told you to? Will you write a hatchet job on someone and ruin their reputation because you were given the assignment? Do you have the courage to stand up for what is right even though your own job will be in jeopardy or certainly lost?

The other part of work and faith that we were discussing is what I call a “thing”, or what Patricia I think describes as a “calling”. It’s that thing that you’re naturally good at through no fault of your own, and it’s that thing that you enjoy. Beyond that, I guess the question is--if God gave you some gift or talent, are you able to apply it to a livelihood in which you can use it to do God’s work? Think great lawyers who defend the helpless, disenfranchised members of society. Or career waitresses who serve their customers as if they were their family members.

I personally don’t use what God gave me to do God’s work. I use what God gave me, like most people do I suspect, to put food on the table, to keep a roof over my head. It’s not that I wouldn’t or won’t someday find a way to apply my skills to more useful, meaningful work. I just haven’t yet. But maybe right now, given the economy, I should be grateful that I have work at all. And besides, in truth, I find my workplace is a great environment to practice what I got out of Patricia’s sermon last year—“the evils of the tongue”. My colleagues simply don’t know how much more difficult I would be to deal with if I didn’t at least try to take my faith with me to the office from time to time.