The state conference of the United Methodist Church has divided 38 churches in the New Orleans area into seven clusters, most with one or more disabled churches unable to hold services or open on a limited basis. The idea is for the Methodists in those areas to get together and do a self-study, have meetings and forums, then make the tough decisions on the future of their churches.

This will require new strategies, according to Bishop William Hutchinson, and that may require a fresh infusion of new pastors into the area. “We’re not declaring any church abandoned…(or) closed,” he said. What they’re trying to do, he says, is put those key decisions into the hands of the members.

This is a different approach from the Catholic churches in the area, where the Archbishop made the decisions and handed them down. Several churches with long traditions have been shuttered, the congregations merged with others, and a lot of people are unhappy about it. Someone wrote the newspaper the other day demanding that Archbishop Hughes tell people why he did what he did. I’m a Southern Baptist and not in on the doings of the Catholics, but I can answer that question. It’s economics. If you have no people living in the neighborhood, you can’t afford to keep up all those churches. And anyone who has driven this city knows there are no small Catholic churches here. All seem to be huge and elaborate. My guess is it costs a small fortune to keep them cleaned and staffed and in full operation.

This is also a different approach, some are saying, from the top-down executive type decision which usually characterizes the United Methodist Church. In this case, they’re really asking the members what they want to do.

Even with this reasonable, “bottom-up” approach by the United Methodists, a lot of members are feeling insecure right now, afraid their favorite church will be lost. Reverend Lekisha Reed of the Boynton UMC in Gretna said this week, “I’m picking up on the fear of the unknown. You don’t know what the future is going to look like.”

One resident said, “I’ve lost everything else. Don’t take my church away from me.” As palpable as his pain is, all that gentleman has to do is look around and he’ll find thousands of neighbors in the same boat with him.

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“What’s taking so long for the city to rebuild?” everyone wants to know. “We were here months ago and it looks the same.”

The short answer is everyone’s waiting.

The residents are waiting for their insurance. Waiting for their FEMA trailer. Waiting for it to be hooked up. Waiting for the power to be restored. Waiting for the government to tell them what the requirements for rebuilding will be. Waiting for the other residents to return. Waiting for stores in their area to open. Waiting for employers to hire again. Waiting for volunteers to help gut out their houses and rebuild them.

The governments are waiting for other governments to take the lead. The mayor waits for FEMA and the Corps of Engineers and the governor’s office. The mayor and governors’ offices are waiting for the check to arrive from Congress. Waiting for congressional leaders to come down and see for themselves. Waiting for the White House to return their calls.

The businesses are waiting for the residents to return. Waiting for the power to be restored. Waiting for their SBA loan to be approved. Waiting for their kids’ schools to reopen. Waiting for the neighborhood to return.

The churches are waiting for their insurance checks. Waiting for the neighborhood to be restored. Waiting for the pastors to return. Waiting for a word from Heaven on what they should do.

Everyone is waiting on something or someone.

I’m not sure how many years ago Rob Boyd wrote the following, but it had to have been nearly a decade ago. He was pastoring the First Baptist Church of Clinton, Mississippi, and I clipped his column from their weekly bulletin and kept it in my Bible ever since. Here it is in its entirety.

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The front page of the Saturday, March 18, Times-Picayune announces, “The LRA wants to know why FEMA is spending $75,000 on trailers when these cottages cost less than $60,000.” Each 23 to 28 foot trailer, small fragile cheap-looking boxes, is costing the Federal Emergency Management Agency $75,000 to deliver and set up in the yards and driveways of damaged homes. But a “Katrina cottage,” a 400 to 750 square foot prefab house that sleeps four can be built in days and can be expanded into a permanent home, for only $60,000, according to the Louisiana Recovery Authority. The best selling point for the pre-fab home may be that it is made of concrete and steel. If another hurricane targets our area, it would survive the storm better than these cracker box trailers parked in driveways all over the city.

Poor FEMA. I suppose they’re doing the best they can. But nothing they do is ever right or enough.

The best item in Saturday’s paper was a discovery made by one of our collegiate groups gutting out a house in St. Bernard Parish. Trista Wright, who attends Armstrong Atlantic State University in Savannah, Georgia, pulled a rake through a dusty pile of moldly sheetrock and noticed an old piece of green paper jutting out. “It looked like play money,” she said. It was a hundred dollar bill. Stacks of them.

The college kids called the St. Bernard Parish sheriff’s office who sent a cop over, who in turn contacted the lady who owned the house. She verified that the house had been in their family for generations and that her father had never trusted banks. Best they can figure, the money had been stashed in an air-conditioning vent in the 1960s. They estimate the stack contained $30,000. Aaron Arledge, our associate BCM director who was overseeing the group’s New Orleans work, was quoted: “I had my suspicions at first, but once I met the family and talked to the woman, I have no doubt she’s telling the truth. She said her faither grew up in the Depression and must not have told anyone in the family about it before he died.”

(Note to preachers: There’s your sermon illustration. A father has a treasure which he hides from his family. He dies and they never benefit from his wealth. Know any dad who believes in Christ but never tells the family?)

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The annual bill for our home’s flood insurance came Tuesday and I paid it without a thought. This time last year I decided to cancel it. After all, where we live is high ground, outside the official flood zone, so why throw away good money, I reasoned. I said to Margaret, “After all, if we get flooded, New Orleans is gone, and what’s the chance of that.” That started our little husband-and-wife conversation.

“I would feel bad not having flood insurance,” she said. “Honey, it’s two hundred and sixty bucks down the drain. It’s not a lot of money, granted, but why buy it if we’re not ever going to need it.” “Just the same,” she said, “I’d feel safer with it.”

“Tell you what I’ll do,” I said. “I’ll call Bob Swanson down the street. He’s an agent for the company that insures our house. Let’s see what he’s doing.” Bob, the nicest guy on the planet and a fine Christian men (is that redundant?), said, “We had the same conversation. Kay wants us to carry flood insurance and I wanted to cancel it. I decided it’s worth that little amount for her to have peace of mind.” “I’d about decided the same thing myself,” I told him and wrote the check. Margaret gave me a hug.

We did not need the flood insurance. The elevation out here in this western suburb of metro New Orleans is–you ready for this?–thirteen. We had the typical wind damage–stripping the shingles off the roof, water leaking into the house, mold, etc.–but no floodwater. We were indeed blessed.

A lot of people in our area of the world had canceled their flood insurance because the authorities told them they were outside the flood zone and safe. They saved that $260 or so. And lost everything. How does that ancient line go–pennywise and pound foolish. But how could they have known.

On the other hand….

Nearly two years ago when I went to work for our association, our administrative assistant told me about the cancer insurance they carry on the employees. “Want it?” she said. And in one of the stupidest, most flippant answers ever, I said, “No. I don’t plan to have cancer.” Which I did before the year was out. In the words of the noted philosopher Gomer Pyle, “Dumb, dumb, dumb.”

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Thursday, I was having lunch with IMB Missionary Tom Hearon at “New Orleans Hamburger and Seafood” in Metairie when we noticed my friend Larry just inside the front door, waiting in a crowded line to give his lunch order. Larry is a great guy and I wanted Tom to know him, so I called to him. He’s a CPA, our church treasurer, has helped our association with financial matters, and does my personal taxes. He pulled a chair up to our table and told Tom of my leading him to the Lord, baptizing him, and performing his wedding to Peggy. Giving me credit for what the Lord did and what I got in on only at the last. After a bit, our talk turned to taxes.

I said, “Larry, I noticed the government is allowing us in this part of the world to have until August to file our taxes.” “Yes,” he said, “One of the few blessings to come out of Katrina. But I’m telling my clients to act as if April 15 is still the deadline and get their stuff in.” “I’m working on it,” I assured him. Which was the truth.

Working on it. But not enjoying it. Filling out tax forms, even the kind I complete only to hand to Larry who does the real work, even that kind is one of my least favorite activities.

For years I thought about admitting to being a procrastinator about taxes, but kept putting it off.

Now, I’m not that way about everything. Ask me to speak at your meeting and I’ll show up prepared. Call me about writing an article for your magazine or drawing a cartoon for your book and I’ll beat your deadline. Last Spring, I wrote five devotionals for our state mission offering scheduled for September. My deadline was April 1 and I e-mailed the articles on March 23. I don’t procrastinate on everything. Just one thing. One big thing. Income taxes.

I don’t just dread income tax time. I hate it. Despise, abhor, detest. Loathe, dislike, execrate, scorn. Shrink from, have an aversion to, abominate. (Thanks for the help, Mr. Roget.)

Now, to be honest, it’s not all that hard to do my taxes any more. I keep good records and have everything handy. I pay enough throughout the year that I actually get refunds. This was a long time coming, though.

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All of the following is gleaned from the Wednesday, March 15, 2006 edition of the Times-Picayune.

1. Front page: they’re cleaning out the flooded home of Fats Domino, everyone’s favorite rock and roll legend. He lived in a humble home in the tragic Lower 9th Ward that took in 10 feet of water, and lost all kinds of irreplacable treasures from the early days of his music. A team from the Louisiana State Museum combs through his home, trying to salvage anything they can.

2. The state of Louisiana is hiring a contractor to haul away the 350,000 automobiles that were both uninsured and ruined by Katrina’s floodwaters. A Georgia company came in with the lowest bid, some $61 million.

3. A headline announces “Suicide rates down after Katrina.” As surprising as that is, it could be because so many of our people are now living in other states. Perhaps Texas is experiencing a spike in their suicide numbers. At our Wednesday pastors meeting, someone said the suicide rate on the Mississippi Gulf Coast is up something like 900%.

4. According to the RAND Corporation, the population of New Orleans will not reach 50% of the pre-Katrina level until 2008. Our optimistic mayor had predicted New Orleans will reach 300,000 by the end of this year, a figure which evidently he snatched out of thin air. The RAND study calls for a total population of 272,000 by August 29, 2008.

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In our Wednesday pastors gathering, some 45 of us talked about the importance of learning names and remembering them. I have sometimes been accused of being good with names, and if so, it’s because I work at it. As pastor I would sit on the platform during the service scanning the congregation, going over the names. At the door, I dared to call the person by name even if I wasn’t sure, which meant sometimes I got it wrong. That is the very reason the average person never attempts to learn names or to call people by their names. “What if I get it wrong and embarrass myself?” Answer: anyone wanting to be good with names must run that risk and not let it deter him. You will make mistakes. No matter. Smile, get it right, and go on.

Joe Williams told us his secret. “Linda is great with names. So I stay close to her. She calls out their name and I smile and say it like I knew it all along.”

Rana Burt stopped by long enough to tell about their church van’s accident on the way to the Billy Graham Crusade. No one was injured, but the van is a mess. Her daughter Katie, age 8, was upset until Rana assured her the Lord was with them and had taken care of them. As they got to safety, there was a Bible lying on the road. (“What are the chances of that?” she asked.) Katie picked it up and the ribbon opened it to a passage beginning, “God protects.” Rana is getting up a group of ministers’ wives to make the trip to Chattanooga later this month to hear Beth Moore.

Eddie Scott, pastor of Christian Bible Fellowship on Alvar Street in the 9th Ward, joined us for the first time. Volunteers are gutting out their buildings and they’re looking toward getting the church up and running to minister to neighbors as they return. Eddie spoke of their evacuation and all the ministry Southern Baptists have given them during their crisis. “I’m so glad to be a Southern Baptist,” he said. “Some of the Brothers used to ask me why I’m Southern Baptist. Now they envy me.”

John Jeffries, Chalmette FBC, told of the SBA loans available to churches for rebuilding. “No grants are available,” he said. “Just loans.”

Tom Hearon of the International Mission Board came by. Tom and Bonnie, long-time friends of ours, are veteran SBC missionaries to South America and Italy, now assigned to the personnel department of the IMB working out of Nashville for a couple of years. The IMB has a fascinating program of allowing their people to leave the Richmond office for a week to serve in the hurricane disaster area. Great idea.

Freddie Arnold told of folding chairs being made available by a church in Arkansas. He told of Pastor John Galey (Poydras BC) who last Sunday gave his people two lists they could sign up for. He had 14 to enroll to help with the feeding unit at Riley School and 17 to sign up for a mission trip to Missouri. The Show-Me folks have done so much in St. Bernard Parish, John wants to show their appreciation by traveling there and helping in some needed ministry. Freddie told of a collegiate ministry that called him from out of state with 3500 students coming to work in New Orleans, but needing a place to stay. “Sorry,” he told them. “I don’t have a clue.”

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Before opening my mail and letting you read over my shoulder, you will be interested in knowing the attendance at Sunday evening’s Billy Graham service has been variously reported in the media as 17,800 and 16,000. Which means no one really knows. A group of pastors met downtown this morning to go through the hundreds of decision cards and sort them, getting ready to assign them to participating churches for followup. One pastor said there were “700 decisions” made on Saturday night. While we rejoice at this, we remind ourselves that all the efforts were worthwhile if they made the difference in one soul’s eternal destiny.

Letter one. I’ve known Mel since the 1980s when I was his mother-in-law’s pastor in Mississippi. A few years ago, he and his wife joined our church in Louisiana. Today, he wrote to say that lately he has been uneasy about his relationship with the Lord. “My heart was condemning me,” as he put it. So he decided to go back and make certain of his salvation. He took the little Billy Graham booklet “Steps to Peace With God” and read it, then did what it prescribes, namely, praying a prayer in which he repented of his sin and asked Jesus into his life to save him forever. He wanted me to know about it, and wondered if his pastor would mind baptizing an old guy like him.

I wrote back rejoicing over his decision and added: “In my notes of the Billy Graham sermon Sunday night, the very last sentence I jotted down was this: ‘If you’re not sure, you need to be certain.'” That’s what Mel was doing. I told him his pastor would be delighted to baptize him.

One of the songs from Nicole Mullen Sunday afternoon was about assurance of salvation. Those who were present will recall her refrain, “I know that I know that I know that I know….”

Letter two. One of the finest United Methodist churches on the planet is one some good friends of mine belong to in Mississippi. I haven’t asked the pastor’s permission to tell what he did Sunday, so I’ll not mention the location. But he was so courageous, I applaud the man and celebrate the faithfulness of his people.

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It’s only 8 o’clock as I type this but it feels like midnight. Long day. This morning I worshiped with the exciting, enthusiastic, rocking El Buen Pastor (Good Shepherd) Baptist Church in Metairie where Gonzalo Rodriguez is another el buen pastor. The choir was filled, the platform was crammed with singers and musicians, the walls were lined with extra chairs, the building was packed, and the place was shaking with joy. They were celebrating and dedicating the restoring of their sanctuary and educational buildings following Katrina’s damage, and breaking the news of two additional houses adjoining their campus that have just become available to them. I told them I didn’t understand a word they said, but I would join their church out of the sheer joy of their praise. And the fact that they love to eat.

To ride the bus to the New Orleans Arena for the 4 o’clock service, we had to meet at the church at 2 pm. I decided the parking and traffic headaches last night were enough to last me for a while, so I boarded the bus with my grandchildren and their parents and a lot of other nice people. “Do you know Billy Graham’s three favorite foods?” the lady in front of me asked. “No. I wouldn’t have a clue. He’s a man. Steak, probably.” “No, they all come in cans. Vienna sausage, pork and beans, and canned tomatoes.” “Really? That sounds like something men eat in a boat in the middle of the lake.” “I heard it somewhere.” She also knew his birthday, and picked my brain on the few conversations I’ve had with the famous evangelist. Who knew Mr. Graham had a groupie.

“Throw your water bottle away,” the stern official-looking lady at the arena gate said. “It’s the rule. No outside beverages.” Inside, water bottles went for three bucks. The concession stands had long lines, and people were carrying hot dogs and cokes inside prior to the service. I understand it, it just seems a little strange.

I ran into old friends and met new ones. Tom Hearon, missionary to Italy, and our “son” whom we adopted when he was a student at Mississippi College 35 years ago, drove down from Picayune, Mississippi, where he and others are working as volunteers this week. He’s coming to our Wednesday pastors meeting in LaPlace.

If we had 13,000 in attendance last night, the Times-Picayune’s figure, I’m eager to see what it was this evening. The arena was packed, even the bad seats behind the stage where they had to watch it on the small screens, even that was taken. Cliff Barrows said, “Thousands are watching in the overflow area set up.” (A friend sent me an editorial from the Winston-Salem newspaper the other day in which the editor was lambasting New Orleans for restoring the Arena when so many thousands of homes are in ruins. It was all for basketball, the writer said. I responded to my friend that the Arena had taken water only in the lower area where the locker rooms are located, and that this is the only place in town big enough to accommodate the Billy Graham meeting, and this criticism was utterly unfair.)

David Crosby announced to the crowd that on August 26 Anne Graham Lotz will be in New Orleans presenting her Bible teaching conference called “Just Give Me Jesus.” Everyone was thrilled.

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I drove 6 hours to get to “church” Saturday night. It was worth the drive.

On Friday, I had driven to Birmingham to speak at the annual deacons’ banquet in the outstanding Green Valley Baptist Church where NOBTS grad Jeff Vanlandingham is pastor. I spent the night with my big brother Ron, veteran pastor in the Gardendale area, and Saturday at 11 am the family gathered at Niki’s restaurant on Finley Avenue to celebrate our parents’ 72nd wedding anniversary. (Mom got up feeling her age and asked if someone else could sit in for her. Sorry, mom. No one can take your place. She seemed to make it just fine.) I cut out at 12:30 and headed south toward New Orleans, trying to make the 7 pm start for the “Celebration of Hope” in the New Orleans Arena. Franklin Graham would be the preacher.

Our church–the First Baptist Church of Kenner, near the New Orleans airport–lined up five buses to ferry members and friends to the arena, and presumably wanting to make certain everyone got a seat, left two hours before the service for what is about a 20 minute drive. I’m uncertain what the arena’s capacity is, but it was filled to the brim, with only a few empty seats here and there, and a larger section behind the stage where anyone sitting would not be able to see anything. Pick a number. I’d say 15,000 were in attendance. We’ll see what the Sunday morning paper says. I did arrive on time, finding a space in the Superdome parking lot, and settling in beside son Neil and his family with 10 minutes to spare. Section 309 is on the nosebleed level. Seriously, this building was constructed strictly for basketball (although Placido Domingo did a concert here this week) and the rows of seats seem to be stacked on one another. Stumble on the top row and they’ll pick you up downstairs on the court. And probably haul you off to the morgue. It’s scary. And the seats are tight, not unlike sitting in the middle seat on an airplane for 3 hours. You gotta wanna do this. And we did.

Music. You like it, they had it. Local choirs did the pre-service praise, then the celebration officially got underway. George Huff of American Idol fame. Guitarist Dennis Agajanian. Point of Grace. One after another. Good music, I’m sure. Not my preference for the most part, but, hey, they weren’t aiming at me. Let’s just say the place was rocking. That went on for an hour, interspersed with videos on the New Orleans crisis, Franklin Graham’s ministries, and a testimony from a football star.

Okay, I’m ready for Franklin Graham. Not yet. Mel Graham was introduced, the son of Billy Graham’s recently deceased brother Melvin. He told of growing up on the family dairy farm and getting into real estate. “In my 20s I turned my back on God,” he said. “God showed me who was boss, and brought me to my knees.” Partying, drinking. “A policeman woke me up in the middle of an intersection.” That was the night he spiritually awakened and gave his life to the Lord Jesus Christ and began to get his act together. “He’s the One and Only Answer,” he said.

Okay, Franklin Graham now. Nope. “Let’s put our hands together and welcome Tommy Walker.” Say who? “I’m your worship leader,” he said. For the next 30 minutes, he led us in hymns and choruses, accompanying himself on the guitar. I was the only person in the building, judging by the wonderful singing and enthusiastic participation, who was ready for the preaching. Maybe it was because I’d just driven 6 hours and was tired.

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