Sermon for the Second Sunday after Epiphany by Susan N. Eaves, January 17, 2010

I had been looking forward to preaching on one of my most favorite passages in scripture - the wedding feast at Cana in Galilee. It has been about twelve years since I had the opportunity to preach on this text and the last time I did so was with about thirty second's notice as a fellow priest became ill. Needless to say it was not my best effort.

But what are we to say about a story where Jesus makes everything OK and a country like Haiti were OK is merely a fantasy and desolation, destruction, and death the reality, Here we are, speaking of Epiphany, of the light of Christ illuminating the world while our neighbors lie rotting in the streets and the living have lost their homes, their livelihoods and do not even have water. It is supposed to be the preacher's job to make sense of things but it isn't possible to make sense of this.

So what shall we do? Give up even trying?

I don't think we can do that; any more than we can give up on being human or wrestling with our relationship with God. I think what we can do is look for some pinpoints of light in the midst of this great darkness.

There are some pinpoints of light in our scriptures and prayers.

First is the promise God gives through the prophet Isaiah: Speaking to the people of Israel suffering in exile God says, "You shall no more be termed Forsaken, and your land shall no more be termed Desolate."

Hear the word of the Lord.

Promises are about hope. Hope is our foundation.

Second is the psalmist's sure confidence in the goodness of our God.

Psalm 36: 5 Your love, O LORD, reaches to the heavens, *
           and your faithfulness to the clouds.

6  Your righteousness is like the strong mountains,
           your justice like the great deep; *
                you save both man and beast, O LORD.

7   How priceless is your love, O God! *
           your people take refuge under the shadow of your wings.

Hear the word of the Lord.

Conviction about the love of God is the foundation of faith. Faith and hope; pinpoints of light in darkness. But on what basis is faith and hope to be justified? What is the evidence, faced as we are with the suffering of the hour - the suffering that is always among us and today is right in our face?

We are the evidence. We just prayed, "Grant that your people, illumined by your Word and Sacraments, may shine with the radiance of Christ's glory" The fact of our existence, of the church gathered, is a fact of great responsibility.

We are the evidence. We are called, called to be pinpricks of light in the midst of darkness. We may not feel like it, we may feel we cannot do it, we may be overwhelmed by it, but we have asked to be the radiance of Christ's glory. We have asked to become those who illuminate, those who are light to the world. " There are varieties of gifts, but the same Spirit; and there are varieties of services, but the same Lord; and there are varieties of activities, but it is the same God who activates all of them in everyone. To each is given the manifestation of the Spirit for the common good." writes Paul.

Hear the word of the Lord.

Each one of us is called. And to each of is given the same Spirit. We are the church. We are the evidence. And the Spirit will provide what is needed.

Being the evidence does not answer our questions, of course. But being the evidence is to be the church. It is the power to release the Spirit into the world. Being the evidence means we can be light, we can be radiant with glory to walk alongside those who cry out in their suffering.

And least we should think that this is a pretty white -washed way of looking at the world from our comfortable middle-class existence, least we should doubt our call or our capacity to respond let me share with you a brief account of the response of the people of Haiti on the day of their destruction. It appeared in the New York Times on January 14, 2010 written by Simon Romero.

PORT-AU-PRINCE, Haiti - "I just want my wife's corpse," said Lionnel Dervil, pleading in vain to bury his wife in his home province.

But no one at the Doctors Without Borders compound paid much heed to the stricken Mr. Dervil, 38, a money-changer and father of four children. Instead, doctors were frantically tending to those still living who had streamed in. A watchman tried to keep a mob from pushing its way inside. It was hard to tell which was worse, the suffering of the dozens of victims behind the tall gate, or the scene on the sidewalk outside.

One woman writhed on the pavement of the compound's gate, her foot impaled by a piece of wood. A grandmother silently endured the pain of her right leg, twisted like a pretzel. Anesthesia remained a distant dream. Then there were the bodies - dozens, if not hundreds of them - starting to decompose under white sheets.

Some of the bodies strewn on the sidewalk had names scribbled on pieces of cardboard. "Regina" had died somewhere before arriving at the entrance of the private St. Esprit Hospital a few blocks from the Doctors Without Borders compound. No one there could explain who Regina was.

Within the compound, a French volunteer offered a harried summary: "We are overwhelmed. We don't have capacity for more victims. We don't have time to talk. Please, I do not know what more to say. I must go now."

Mr. Dervil fixed his tired gaze on the soil below. "I just want my wife's corpse," he repeated. "I know they are busy tending to the survivors, but there is a room full of bodies that I cannot get to."

The wounded stared around that room of the dead, hoping their time had not yet come. Their relatives waited on the asphalt outside the compound, praying for their loved ones. The scene was repeated again and again in front of barely functioning hospitals and clinics throughout this barely functioning city.

Soon dusk began to fall, enveloping this city, still without electricity, in darkness. An aftershock sent people running out of homes into the street. Many decided it would be safer to remain in the street. They chatted with neighbors and wondered what would come next in Port-au-Prince. Some lighted candles under the night sky.

With no electricity, stars offered the only illumination in the city, which, with its suburbs, is home to nearly 3 million people. For some of those lying on the asphalt or in the parks, cellphones provided a brief glimpse of light.

Then the singing began. Those gathered outside tents, on lawn chairs, sitting in the middle of empty streets, sang their hymns. One phrase in Creole could be heard repeatedly both inside and outside the hospital walls, as if those voicing the words were trying to make sense of the madness around them. "Beni Swa Leternel," they sang. "Blessed be the Lord."

Hear the word of the Lord.

Be the evidence. Reach out to those in need. Comfort God's people. Be their light so we may sing with them "Beni Swa Leternal." "Blessed be the Lord." Become Jesus at Cana. Turn water into wine.