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 The
week of April 17th, Easter Week, thirty members of the National Black Catholic
Congress, my wife, Margaret, and I, accompanied Bishops John Ricard (Pensacola-
Tallahassee) and Joseph Perry (Auxiliary Bishop of Chicago), on a Solidarity
Visit to the Archdiocese of New Orleans and the Diocese of Biloxi. The trip's
purpose was to give the travelers a first hand view of the situation in the
aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. For some it was their first trip. For others,
like me, it was one of multiple trips. For all, it was an awakening to the
awesome task of rebuilding that lies ahead for the region.
 Despite this being my sixth trip, I was still amazed
at the ongoing decay and the slow progress of repairs. Traveling with some who
were experiencing the disaster for the first time, I was struck by their loss
for words in the face of the damage. Phrases like, "Oh my God!"; "Lord, no!!"
and, "God help them!" were continually repeated throughout the trip. Hearing the
words during Easter Week made them even more poignant. Before the four day trip
would end those comments would have even more significance.
The trip took us to several sites in the Archdiocese of New Orleans (St. Peter
Claver Church in Treme' in New Orleans, the MAX School (Xavier Prep), Xavier
University, the Mother House for the Sisters of the Holy Family) and to the
Diocese of Biloxi. Although it had been nearly nine months since Katrina, the
impact of the storm was still visible everywhere.
At St. Peter Claver church on St. Philip Street, in
Treme'/Lafitte, an area on the edge of the French Quarter and a little over a
mile west of the Mississippi River, piles of debris could be seen stretching
everywhere. Although much of it had been cleared from around the church, most of
the rest of neighborhood was untouched. The vacant houses that lined the streets
still bore the scars of the storm and flood. Watermarks could be seen on the
eaves of the roofs of some of the houses. But St. Peters, by contrast, had few
if any obvious visible exterior signs of the water or other damage. And, one of
the things I took for a sign (a slightly rusting wrought iron fence out in
front) might just as well have been there before the storm.
In the church yard, workmen were busy painting and
making repairs to the school which stood just behind the church. As we debarked
from the bus, many commented on the contrasting cleanliness of the church
grounds. Inside, the interior looked as if it had never been touched by the
disaster. The walls were a pristine white and stood in stark contrast to the
oaken colored wood floors, pews, and Stations of the Cross. The ceiling, which
was also white, had oaken colored support rafters that soared to the church's
apse and brought to mind the holes of a great seventeenth or eighteenth century
seagoing vessel. The sanctuary literally glittered from the polished statues,
fonts, and woodcarvings. It was separated from the sacristy by an equally
intricate and highly polished interwoven wooden screen.
To the right of the altar, in the area where a side
altar might once have stood, was the baptismal fount. It was made of black
onyx-like material and the waters and the font glistened like the rest of the
church. I was so much in awe of it all that I had to go back outside to assure
myself that I had not stepped through a time warp into another dimension. As I
returned to the church, I could hear the muffled "oohs" and "ahhhs" coming from
the group. With every new discovery the voices grew louder. After a while, the
sounds gave way to a great crescendo which had the feelings of the beginnings of
an impromptu concert. In the midst of this cacophony Father Michael Jacques, the
pastor, told the story of the aftermath of the storm and the church's ongoing
recovery.
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