Our last day in New Orleans was Sunday. We woke early (managing a sort of hybrid UK/US time, although the extra hour when we moved from Florida towards Alabama was brutal). We ran in the hotel gym, because even though we wait until it’s light, running in New Orleans would feel unsafe due to all the drug addicts—who I suspect are unpredictable when needing money.

We wanted to attend a church. I like attending local churches when away from home. Since I went to Spurgeon’s College (a Baptist college) I have definitely become less Baptist ironically, and much more interested in how different denominations express their faith. Most of the churches near us were black churches, so I checked with the hotel receptionist whether we would be welcome in a black church, or whether it would be rude to attend. She assured us we would be welcome, and also suggested we could try the local Catholic church—St. Jude’s. This, plus the information that the local Baptist church service would run to at least 2 hours, was helpful. We walked to St.Judes.

The walk to church typifies New Orleans for me. The roads were big, but easy to cross because traffic stops at crosswalks. The streets were fairly busy, with a mishmash of people—many with dyed (blue/green/pink) hair, many looking smart, music seeping from doorways. Lying on the hard tarmac, huddled under old coats because the weather was chilly, were the homeless. There was a police convoy, stopping traffic as floats from Mardi Gras swept past—going I guess into storage until next year. The floats were bright, huge figureheads, painted fences to enclose the people who would ride on them.

 As we neared church, I saw a couple of people, sleeping with blankets pulled over their heads, bare toes peeping out from under the cover. It was sad, sadder for some reason than the homeless that I see in London—perhaps because there are places they can go to if they choose, and here I don’t know what their options are. Plus so many were young men, thin faces and blank eyes, ravaged by drugs. It broke my heart. I wanted to lay my jacket over them, but Husband stopped me, said it would probably be sold for drugs, better to donate money to a charity that could help them properly. But it was sad. As we arrived at the church I felt very near tears. I kept wondering where God was in this city, wondering who was working for him to help these people.

The church was welcoming when we entered. We are not Catholics, and much of it was completely confusing, everyone else seemed to know what to chant at intervals, which responses to give. It was a big church, packed with a whole variety of people—many were very smart, posh clothes ladies wearing hats and heels, some were casual, some looked like they had wandered in from the street in search of somewhere warm to rest. The choir were dressed in white and processed down the aisle to signify the start of the service. Most were fairly old, and they wore fez-type hats. All the church wardens wore red gowns, which helped to know who was an official. There was a brass band, and the songs all had a Kum by Yah African-American spiritual-folk flavour to them. The offering was collected in baskets with long handles (like fishing nets) and after collecting it, they came back a second time, which was unexpected. (I think they were collecting for two different things, but it made me giggle.) The Priest gave a talk, which was short but I thought it was good—about Jesus being tempted and how people are tempted today by Power and Prestige and Profit (even the leaders). There was then a prayer asking that leaders of countries should behave according to God’s will, and for the good of the world not just their own prestige or the good of their own country. (But he did not name anyone specifically.) At the end was a little prize-giving for the women’s group (who seemed to do all the work in the church) and they reminded me of the strong women working in the Zambian church we visited. Then it ended, and people walked out, dipping their fingers in a bowl of holy water.

We packed our bags and drove away from New Orleans. I’m glad we visited, but it made me sad. There was so much creativity, a lot of carefree relaxation, a lot of excellent music, all with an undercurrent of heartbreaking sadness when you noticed the lost faces of the addicts. But we were only there for a few days, so my impressions might be wrong.