Once in a while something happens that lets you know the prayers a friend is sending up are being heard. Such an event occurred Thursday morning.

A fellow named Bob called, wanting to talk over a personal situation, saying he had been praying about it and felt the Lord wanted him to contact me. We chatted for a half hour and resolved the issue as much as we could. At one point, I apologized for the hammering in the background. “Workers are all over my house, installing a new roof.” An hour later, Bob showed up at my door. “Do you mind if I check on the roofers, to make sure they’re doing it right?” Mind? I was honored. Others had said owners need to keep an eye on roof workers so they’ll not cut corners, but I was not sure what to watch for.

A few minutes later, Bob stepped inside and said, “They’re tar-papering over some damaged decking.” The plywood covering the roof had taken water, perhaps before the storm, and had weakened in some places. We placed a call to the contractor who arrived two minutes later, heard Bob’s concerns, and ordered his workers to strip the felt off and check the condition of the decking. Later, Bob returned and pointed out that the air vents had rusted and needed replacing. I’m not sure how much the contractor valued my friend’s interference, but he certainly saved the day for me.

Great timing. A friend I had not seen in six months calls just in time to hear the roofers working, then comes over to make sure they’re doing their job. Thank you, Lord.

We have power in our associational offices, finally. We’re not ready to re-enter them, as they’re going to need a lot of cleaning. The refrigerator needs attending to, every plant in the place is dead, and a fine black dirt has blown under the front door and coated everything. The water department dug in front of our offices to close off a busted water main, and took out a massive tree as well as our sidewalk. So, our front yard looks like–well, like a hurricane went through. Previously, our little street, a frontage lane alongside Lakeshore Drive, was the address of only three buildings: the state offices of the Lutheran church, the Holy Comforter Episcopal Church, and us. Alas, we now have company. FEMA trailers and construction vehicles and tents have proliferated and taken over every available spot.

The one thing I dread about returning to work in our associational offices is that to get there, we have to drive through two miles of deadness, the sad residential neighborhoods destroyed by the high floodwaters. Eventually, I’ll be able to do that without tearing up inside.

Driving in front of Getsemani Spanish Baptist Church, I saw front end loaders and trucks and workers everywhere. The sign on the trailer read: “Mountain Creek Baptist Church, Greenville, South Carolina.” I pulled over and introduced myself. Pastor David Shirley was pouring sweat as he pushed back his goggles and said, “We gutted this entire educational building today.” He introduced me to some of his men, one of whom was driving a small tractor right through the front of the sanctuary and hauling out busted pews and other unrecognizable debris. The piles stood head high along the sidewalk in front; the stench was horrendous. Mountain Creek has adopted Getsemani, which was the site of a death following the flood. You can still read the spray markings of the National Guardsmen above the front door: “1 DB in Back.” Dead body. An elderly neighbor had ridden out the storm only to be trapped inside her home by the rising waters. A church member swam her to the roof of the Lord’s house, where she succumbed. Today, Pastor Alberto Rivera was working just as hard as his new South Carolina friends.

David Shirley said, “I went to seminary down here. Graduated in ’89. I love this place. My church is not large, but we try to make a difference. A couple of weeks ago, we took up an offering to help this church. It came to $1700. Just before leaving the other day, I asked them if we couldn’t take up another offering to help Pastor Alberto and his family get through the Christmas season. They gave another $1700.” He added, We’ll be making a lot of trips down here to help this church.”

They’re staying at the Brantley Center, our mission center normally devoted to sheltering the homeless. These days, the North American Mission Board has dedicated all four of its New Orleans facilities to giving hospitality to volunteers coming to help rebuild our churches.

I drove away reflecting on how much of this is going on all over the city. Churches like Mountain Creek send their people, do their work, give their offerings, and no one but they and the host church even know they’ve been here. We take comfort in knowing that God knows. He sees and knows, and He takes it personally, too. You can believe that.

First Baptist Church of Gretna, on the West Bank, has partnered with a church in Flint, Michigan. Friday, I went over and met with Pastor Levi and his associate Mark, who had come in to scout the local situation, see what needs to be done, begin to make plans, and something out of the ordinary. They’re holding a weekend revival in the church. Christoph Bajewski, a recent graduate of our seminary, is the only staff member left at Gretna these days, and he’s the point man for everything. I said, “Who’s running the office?” He said, “You’re looking at him.” This church has fallen onto hard times in recent years, and has been declining in attendance. “Seven churches are adopting us,” Christoph said. That ought to make a big difference. I suggested to Levi and Mark that they contact the other sponsoring churches and coordinate their assistance and ministries.

NO CONTRIBUTIONS THIS WEEK.

Each Friday, Kim Deville of our Louisiana Baptist Foundation, emails us a report on our “New Orleans Assistance Fund” which we established soon after Katrina hit to assist pastors, churches, and members in the affected area. This week her report was brief: no contributions since last Friday.

I’ve reported here how our committee of three pastors (Lionel Roberts, Gonzalo Rodriguez, and Tony Merida) receive requests from churches and pastors for this money, and make decisions on its dispersement. They meet each Wednesday during lunch following our pastors’ gathering. A few hours later, Gonzalo will type it all up and send to me. I read through it and forward it on to our associational administrative assistant, who transfers money from the Baptist Foundation’s fund to our account, then moves it to Gonzalo’s church where his bookkeeper issues the checks and keeps the records. Wednesday, Gonzalo announced to the ministers present, “When we adjourn, if you’ve requested money, meet us in the back. We have lots of checks to distribute.” What a blessing to be able to do this.

All who have given to our New Orleans Assistance Fund will want to know this money is not sitting in the bank drawing interest. It is being poured into the lives of ministers and churches and church members, meeting their needs and glorifying the Lord Jesus Christ.

The mailing address for contributions is: New Orleans Assistance, c/o La. Baptist Foundation, p. o. box 311, Alexandria, LA 70139.

The mailing address for our association is: Baptist Association of Greater New Orleans, c/o First Baptist Church, p. o. box 1357, Kenner, LA 7003.

SATURDAY AND THE CITY IS BUZZING WITH MINISTRY

This (Saturday) afternoon, I’m flying out to Texas and will be preaching tomorrow morning in the Wedgewood Baptist Church in Fort Worth. But this morning, there were three ministry activities going on I needed to check out.

At Franklin Avenue Baptist Church, there must have been 500 or more volunteers suited up in their white ty-veks and wearing their masks, working hard at gutting out the church. At every entrance, the doors were wide open and wheelbarrows filled with debris were being pushed outside and upended. Piles of ruined chairs and destroyed pews grew by the minute. In the rear parking lot, a group calling itself PRC Compassion had erected a tent and was registering long lines of volunteers and fitting them with their working gear. Pastor Fred Luter was speechless, the only time I’ve ever seen him that way in our 15 year acquaintance. I prayed with him and Gene Mills, the head of PRC, and we talked about what God is doing in this place today. Gene said, “PRC stands for Pastors Resource Council. We’re a ministry of Focus on the Family.” He used to be a campus minister at LSU, and continues to live nearby. “In Baton Rouge,” he said, “we used to have a lot of churches and pastors competing with each other. As they’ve come together, God has built a sweet spirit among them.” He paused and said, “Here it’s different. Here, no one was competing with each other; they just don’t know one another.”

I met Bishop Wylie, who pastors a large church on the West Bank across the street from Calvary Baptist. He said, “I can give you the names of the drug dealers on my street, but could not tell you the pastors in my neighborhood.” David Crosby was quoted as saying, “We’ve not been competitors; we’ve been strangers.”

It’s different now. People from all denominations and races were working on one church building. I told Gene Mills, “Being Southern Baptist, I’m hesitant to say I had a vision.” He laughed. “But, nearly two years ago, when God began to burden me with the isolation of our churches and the insulation of our members and the weakness of the Lord’s work in this city, I had a picture in my mind of this very thing, of God’s people from all backgrounds laboring for the Kingdom without any thought on who gets the credit, except Jesus.”

Vieux Carre’ Baptist Church is having a block party at Woldenburg Park on the side of the Mississippi River, at the edge of the French Quarter. The quarter is up and running for the most part, but the neighborhoods surrounding it are still quiet and dirty and dark. Pastor Greg Hand introduced me to some folks from one of our Baptist churches in Peachtree City, Georgia, who have come to help. They were an hour from getting started, but were beginning to grow concerned over attendance. The city had blocked off the main entrance to the park with heavy trucks and barricades, making it necessary to walk a couple of extra blocks to get there. We prayed together and I gave away my black “Pray New Orleans” t-shirt. Greg’s wife, Wren, said, “Oh, I wanted one of those shirts.” We had used them for the recent prayer walk through the city, and I had forgotten to keep back a supply for our local use. “Hold my glasses,” I said, and whipped the shirt off and handed it to her. (I was wearing a long-sleeve one underneath.)

At Calvary Baptist Church in Algiers, 29 volunteers from the First Baptist Church of Hendersonville, Tennessee, were working alongside church members to produce a large block party beside the church. Tents filled with giveaways and food and children’s fun activities filled the park beside the sanctuary. Everyone was wearing striking red t-shirts, with “Operation Hope” on the front and “Event Staff” on the back. “Do you have an extra?” I asked. They did.

When I arrived home, Margaret said, “You left with a black t-shirt this morning and return with a red one. What’s going on?” Being a preacher and given to metaphors, I started to say the blackness of sin is erased by the red blood of the Savior, and she could expect to see the shirt solid white any minute now. But I didn’t. She’s not a preacher, but a preacher’s wife and they’re literal-minded, a gift from the Father to keep the ministers grounded. She knew I had been swapping with somebody.

The workers are finishing up my roof at this moment. It looks great. We had a little confrontation yesterday. My neighbor, Mickey, an expert on many things, came over to say the workers were messing up my roof, that it was the shoddiest thing he had ever seen, that my contractor was a fly-by-nighter whose specialty was garage-doors, that I needed to do something immediately. I said, “Let me call the contractor.” In the meantime, Margaret called Bob, who had been over Thursday to point out some things to him. About the time they were convening, our son Neil came in. He’d gotten a quote from the same roofer to do his house. We sat down around the breakfast table. What followed was not a pretty scene.

When Bob and the contractor both started telling Mickey that he needs to look at his own roof–still being installed by a different group of workers–and that it is an embarrassment, Neil and I put the brakes on. “We’re talking about the flashing in the valleys of our roof,” we pointed out, trying to stay on course with the criticisms Mickey had registered.

The contractor is a good guy and a neighbor just down the street. At one point, he came close to losing it. “I’m going to take care of Joe,” he said. Turning to Neil, he added, “But if you don’t have 100% confidence in me, I do not want to do your roof. I have plenty of business without it.” Neil replied calmly, “All we’re doing is raising some questions. We need answers. And frankly, you are giving good answers. And we appreciate it.” The tension eased, Mickey left, we walked around the house, the contractor pointed out some things, and I said, “Let’s get it done.”

Lots of ministry–of all types–going on in the Crescent City today.