Eddie Painter has been pastor of Barataria Baptist Church in the little town of Jean Lafitte, Louisiana, for one year now, and the attendance has doubled. Tonight, the church is electing a building committee to plan additional space. I think I saw today how everything is coming together.

Get your map down. Jean Lafitte is hard to find, as the U.S. government and the State of Louisiana discovered in the 1810s. The privateer–first cousin to a pirate–lived down in Barataria Bay with his gang of cutthroats and brigands and their families. I seriously doubt if anyone knows to this day exactly where they made their headquarters since so much of the land mass that made up the wetlands this far south is now underwater. Historians tell us Lafitte had a wealth of supplies which his men had taken off enemy ships, much of which was then slipped into the black market of New Orleans. Initially, Andrew Jackson rejected any thought of involving Lafitte in the defense of New Orleans until he saw the man had what he needed: experienced fighting men with lots of firepower. Jean Lafitte came out of the Battle of New Orleans a hero.

“The school down here is supposed to be one of the best anywhere,” Eddie Painter said. He and his wife Lisa have two teenage daughters, Ellie and Angel. “We love this place.”

“In the early service this morning, we had 34,” Eddie told me at church. The 11 o’clock service which I attended was filled, easily 65 to 70. The music was all hymns–“What a Friend,” “In the Garden,” and “I Am Thine, O Lord”–but the pianist and organist played them double time and the congregation sang out lustily.

When Eddie rose to welcome everyone, he said, “I have an announcement to make: I have bought a pair of white boots.” Everyone laughed. These are the rubber boots which shrimpers and other fishermen wear on the boats to guard against the slippery decks. Status symbols in this part of the world.

“And this week, I got my commercial fishing license!” That did it. Laughter and applause. “I’m on my way to becoming a permanent resident!” Cheering.

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When they ask if I attended any of the Mardi Gras parades this year, I just say ‘no.’ They never ask why not and I never tell. The simple reason is that I’d be out of place.

I don’t like feeling out of place. I’ve been there enough to know it’s no fun.

George Gobel used to say, “Have you ever felt like all the world was a tuxedo and you were a pair of brown shoes?”

The lady from the chamber of commerce called to apologize. That night they were honoring a member of my church, one of our leading deacons who was an uppity-up in the finance world, at a lavish banquet in the hotel down the street. I was supposed to have gotten an invitation, she said, but someone failed to send it, and would I please try to come. I knew what had happened, that someone had just thought at the last minute, “We ought to invite his pastor.”

I said, “Thank you. If I can, I’ll be there.” The cocktail hour was scheduled before the banquet, so I figured it would give me time to say my hello to the deacon, then slip out. I walked into the banquet area and was stunned by the scene: a crowd of the city’s elite, all decked out in tuxedos and evening dresses, was milling around, cocktails in hand. These were the beautiful people of our city, the ones who run the largest corporations and foundations and whose images adorn the society pages.

Meanwhile, I was wearing the clothes I had left home in that morning, a tan sport-coat and grey slacks, which after eight hours were beginning to look like I had slept in them.

I walked around the room, feeling like that dream we all have had where you are in a crowd with no clothes on. I kept searching for a familiar face, anyone at all whom I knew. I never did see the guest-of-honor, but after five minutes of torture from feeling so out of place, I decided to go home and enjoy a quiet evening with the family.

Home. My place.

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One of the ways I know the Father is talking to me is when the same message arrives from several different sources. Take today, for instance.

I’d been thinking a lot about grace. In teaching Romans–I’m about to do that for the sixth time since the first of January–the subject of grace figures prominently into Paul’s presentation of the gospel message. In that epistle, he keeps hammering on the fact that if salvation is by grace, then it’s not by works, not by law, not by heritage, nor birth nor merit of any kind whatsoever. If salvation is by grace, then no human can take credit for it and no one can boast about receiving it. It’s of God from first to last. All we can do is receive it or reject it.

A front-page article in the Times-Picayune for today (Thursday, February 7, 2008) was headlined “N.O. nuns play role in Giants’ miracle.” Subtitle: “Their medal provides divine intervention.”

Sister Kathleen Finnerty, Superintendent of Schools for the Archdiocese of New Orleans, used to head a school in New York City where Giants’ owner John Mara’s children attended. Since she and the nuns of the Ursuline Convent are big football fans, rooting especially for local boys Payton and Eli Manning, they were praying for the Giants to win the Super Bowl game last Sunday evening. Sister Kathleen told the newspaper, “Some of the sisters down here are 80 to 90 years old, and they are football addicts. So, when the Giants made the Super Bowl, one of them said to me, ‘We can’t let Eli down. We have to get Our Lady in on this.'”

That’s what she said: “We have to get Our Lady in on this.”

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“What is that smudge on her head?” I wondered, as I carried my cafeteria tray past a woman in a booth. “Oh yeah. Ash Wednesday.” It was the largest smudge I’d ever seen a priest leave and looked a little like she had fallen on a coal scuttle. Guess he felt she needed a little extra.

Funny how the Mardi Gras season goes full tilt right up until midnight, then shuts down abruptly at the stroke of 12, and everyone goes home. The street sweepers come out, and by Wednesday morning Canal Street looked as clean as it ever does. Lent has arrived, and with it a full slate of religious observances. Yessir, we can go from the flesh to the spirit at the stroke of the clock!

The text message I received from Greg Hand this morning at 1 am was one for the books. His Vieux Carre’ Baptist Church, one block over from Bourbon Street, was hosting friends from around the country who came to bear a witness for Christ during this weekend. The message read: “Four baptized Wednesday a.m. Five total for the holidays.”

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Tonight, watching the returns from Super Tuesday’s presidential primary elections, in which 24 of the 50 states of the Union voted, you find yourself thinking, “Wonder how a foreigner sees all this?”

He would be totally at sea. Absolutely lost.

So, let’s see if we can make a little sense of it.

One: the United States of America is a family made up of 50 states. Imagine having a family with 50 children, each different from the others, some not looking like anyone you know, and each one a strong personality and priding itself on its eccentricities.

America is not a monolithic single-entity, but is divided and subdivided into sections and regions. That is, this country is not like an apple–cut it open and it’s pretty much the same throughout–but is more like an orange, composed of sections, with each one a little different from the others.

Using the orange analogy, imagine cutting one open and pulling out the sections to find that one slice is a lemon, one a navel orange, one slice a tangerine, another grapefruit, and another a lime. They’re all members of the citrus family, but that’s where the similarities end.

That is the United States of America. Emphasis on “states.” We were states before we were united, and we have retained a lot of the characteristics of our independency.

Okay, now, second point: the political parties run their primaries however they please. The federal government has nothing to do with it. That’s completely surprising to outsiders. Here we are the last remaining superpower nation on earth and in choosing the next leader of the free world, our system is in the hands of the political parties in each state which are run by people we don’t know. And we meekly go along with it.

That’s why in this presidential primary, some states met in caucus to make their selections–remember Iowa in early January–while others asked the entire electorate to traipse to the polls and vote, as in New Hampshire in February. Today, Republicans in West Virginia met in caucus and announced this morning that Mike Huckabee received all 8 delegates for their party’s nomination.

Still on point two. States do not have to do things alike. Some states will award all the electoral votes to the person who wins their state’s primary, and the runners-up are left out in the cold. Other states will give so many votes to the winner based on the percentage he polled, so many to the runnerup, again based on his or her votes, and so on.

Confused? You’re not alone. I daresay the average citizen on the street does not have a clue how all this works. They read the paper and when it says, “Go to the polls Saturday,” they go. Well, 50 percent of us do, but that’s another story.

Third: then, this summer, after the caucuses and primaries have done their thing, delegates will gather in a large city for the Republican National Convention and in another city for the Democratic National Convention. There, delegates will either decide at that time or ratify the decision the voters have already made as to who their candidate for president will be.

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Friday, Steve and Dianne Gahagan stopped by the associational office to say their goodbyes. Tomorrow their rental truck pulls out from the home next door to Oak Park Baptist Church which the congregation has been providing them for nearly 2 years now. They will be facing an 11-hour drive back to South Carolina.

For 21 months, Steve has been the construction coordinator for NAMB’s “Operation NOAH Rebuild,” overseeing the reconstruction of hundreds and hundreds of homes in our area, as well as quite a few churches. Dianne has been the office manager, taking the calls and emails from churches around the country interested in bringing teams of volunteers this way to help us and overseeing a hundred related details.

They’re leaving and we’re grieving.

Nearly two years ago, Jim Burton of the North American Mission Board told me about this couple whom he had just hired. Steve has a background in construction and had been working with Habitat for Humanity in South Carolina. Dianne had a business background and was most recently the chief financial officer for a huge corporation. “We are so blessed to be getting this outstanding couple,” he said.

Nothing that has happened since has changed our mind about that assessment.

Our pastors will remember the times when Steve stood at our (then) weekly meetings to report on the work of NOAH and the volunteers coming our way. He always inspired us without fail, and I found myself in awe of the spirit of Christ in this man.

The work of NOAH goes on, under the capable direction of Mickey Caison and, locally, David Maxwell and his wife Wanda. We appreciate them and thank them for their commitment to helping our people and our churches continue the work of restoration.

But, it’s not going to be the same. Steve and Dianne won a huge place in the hearts of all our people.

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