A week before Christmas I visited a place I had seen only through a TV screen—post-Katrina New Orleans. My hosts, my aunt and uncle, had told me about the state of the city time and time again, but I was unprepared for the sheer magnitude of the destruction.  The news shots of dilapidated buildings had given me some idea of the damage, but only a ride past block after block after block of decimation gave me an idea of the massive scale.

Stanley had been in his house two months.  That's right, two months.  Katrina struck over two years ago.  After my aunt introduced me to this office colleague and friend, we went through the niceties of talking about repairs to the house and how his health problems were clearing up.  “We really like how the kitchen turned out.  My wife always wanted a fridge like that.”  “Yes, Stanley, it looks great.  And it looks like your paneling in the living room worked out well.”  After a lull, the conversation turned to the trial of being a New Orleanian.  I wasn't sure how I could broach the subject of what it's like to go through something like this, but Stanley volunteered his thoughts.  “You know, we couldn't have done this without Jesus.”  He looked me straight in the eye for the first time.  His eyes lit up while at the same time the graveness of what he had been through remained in his countenance.  My aunt and I fell silent as he spoke of the Lord's gift of endurance and hope through the dark times.  It was quiet in the room.  This was not a man going through the points of a Sunday School lesson.  This was a man who had faced the fires of a world gone awry, having his faith tested and proved true.

At the church on Sunday morning the pastor's sermon title looked like common holiday fare: “Peace on Earth.”  However, as he began to speak of what peace means in New Orleans Parish, I realized this was not the kind of thing we would talk about back home in Houston at Christmastime.  When he spoke of peace among those in positions of authority, he meant a government free from massive corruption and warring factions.  (In fact, that Tuesday he would have to appear before the city council to defend something as simple as his church's signage.)  When he spoke of peace in the neighborhoods, he meant an end to the gunfire and looting usually found in a country in civil war.  When he spoke of peace in one's mind, he meant relief from the psychological pain of having one's life—possessions, work, family—taken away in a flood. Finally, when he spoke of peace in one's soul, he meant the personal peace with God through Christ that foreshadows a day when all of Creation will be redeemed.

In hearing the words of these saints—these Christians—I thought of the first-century saints in Rome that received the words of a letter from the apostle Paul: “I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us.” (Romans 8:18).  I thought of the saints in Houston who had probably heard these words in a church meeting but had never felt their real impact.      The persecuted saints in Rome understood Paul's words about the groaning of all of creation, the longing for a day when present sufferings would be overcome in a final day of glory (Romans 8:22).    It seems to me that the brothers and sisters in New Orleans understood this too.