To watch the sermon click here.
I recently returned from my annual retreat in Montana, where I gathered with six men I went to seminary with. We’ve been praying together for 25 years. Once a month we talk by phone, and once a year we gather in Montana to review our lives, to wrestle with our callings, to confess and be absolved, to pray and grow together in the Spirit. It’s one of the most essential rhythms of my life.
Some of you know one of these prayer partners: the Rev. Joseph Constant, Rector of St. John’s in Beltsville, Maryland. He is also the founder of the Haiti Micah Project, which this parish has supported faithfully for many years. He asked me to thank you for standing with them in their work, especially now, in the midst of increasing chaos in that country.
If you’ve read the Service and Outreach letters that come out monthly, you are familiar with the heroics that saved 16 children from marauding gangs that overran Mirebalais, forcing them to flee into the woods and then trek 35 miles to safety in Hinche.
Many people were killed in Mirebalais, including two nuns from a convent just two houses down from where Joseph’s mother lives. That place, that convent, was sacred ground for the Constant family. Joseph’s grandfather once served as the caretaker, and his grandmother was the cook and housekeeper. Joseph was raised in the shadow of that holy place.
On Sunday night, March 30th, gangs arrived in Mirebalais from Port-au-Prince and laid siege to the city. As the children from the Haiti Micah orphanage fled into the woods, Joseph’s mother and a young man found themselves pinned down in her house. She called Joseph… a call no one ever wants to receive. Imagine. And Joseph did what I would do, what you would do—he started working the phones. He called ambassadors from Caribbean countries; he called the mayor of Port-au-Prince. Joseph is not without connections and influence. He was trying to figure out who knew who within the network of gangs that might be able to put a pause on the fighting, or at least allow his mother to pass through to safety. But all the doors remained closed and locked.
Time passed. Mrs. Constant ran out of food, and water had to be carefully rationed. But she and the young man with her stayed put as the fighting raged around them. Joseph did what you would do, what I would do—he got down on his knees and prayed. Sunday ran into Monday and then Tuesday… On Wednesday the inevitable happened: a gang broke down the door of his mother’s house. They forced the young man and Joseph’s mother into the courtyard. They threw her to the ground and the man to his knees, gun to his head. They tore through the house. They tore through her belongings. They took what they wanted, and Mrs. Constant prayed.
Then, as if from beyond, a voice broke through saying to Joseph’s mother, “Mama, we did not come to kill you.” And they left, just like that.
Mrs. Constant grabbed her green card and passport, and they fled into the woods. As she did, she called Joseph and said: “I’m out.” Then the phone died. Joseph’s mother was weak and battered from the encounter, but the young man supported her as they escaped the town.
After a time, the adrenaline subsided and exhaustion set in… then a man appeared—and even in the dark of night a flash of light seemed to ignite when he saw Mrs. Constant. He cried out, “Mama, it’s me! You fed me!” He was one of the 600 children fed each day through the Haiti Micah Project, supported in part by this church. “Come with me,” he said, as he helped carry her through the woods.
Eventually, they reached a road. A lone motorcycle, coming down that deserted trail, pulled up, and the rider, lifting his visor, beamed when he saw Mrs. Constant and said: “Mama, it’s me.” Another young man she had fed. “I’ll take you to safety,” he promised. And he did.
He drove her 35 miles to Hinche, where two other young men—college students financially supported by the Haiti Micah Project—welcomed her, cared for her, took her to the hospital, and brought her into their home.
They called Joseph. He had prayed. God had provided. She was safe.
Last Sunday, Joseph flew to Cap-Haïtien because the Port-au-Prince airport remains closed due to the chaos. A priest whom Joseph had mentored and supported for years picked his mother up in Hinche and brought her to another priest’s home in Cap-Haïtien. There Joseph met her, and on Monday brought her to her home in Florida.
Safe. Alive. His mother—but also a mother to many—a mother we honor on this Mother’s Day.
As I reflect upon this harrowing journey and the power of our God to work through community, I’m mindful of the weak-willed ways in which the powerful of this country have treated Haitian immigrants. What I find so shameful is their rhetoric used against people who are lawfully in this country, and their lack of insight into the strength and courage it took for many of them to get here.
That’s the American story—the immigrant’s story. That’s the story of my family, generations back. It is the story of my children’s family, who have an even greater legacy of courage and strength, with ancestors that survived the bowels of slave ships.
It is so historically dishonest for many to forget their own histories. It is so cowardly to ignore the reality of the strength and courage it takes to make one’s way to this country. It so diminishes the American Dream that inspired people to come here, to fill in the space created by this great country—not perfectly, but authentically—for people to express their God-given gifts in a way that benefits both them and, in the broadest sense, feeds their neighbors.
Here is an interesting statistic: between 1901 and 2023, the U.S. has had over 400 Nobel Prize winners, and more than 100 of them were foreign born.
Here is another interesting fact: of the remaining 300 Nobel Prize winners, 100% of them had relatives who immigrated to this country. Of course they did.
You never know who’s going to show up in this nation and have a grandson who grows up to be the first American-born Pope. Leo XIV’s grandfather, Joseph Martinez, immigrated from Haiti.
How is it that a powerful nation with vast resources forgets its history and forgets the benefits of being kind and generous? How is it that in the poorest nation in this hemisphere, four young men, in a moment of crisis, meet the woman who fed them and risk their lives to save hers?
Would that happen here? I wonder.
But it did happen in Haiti because Joseph’s mother cared for her neighbors. She knew who they were—and even if she didn’t—when they showed up on her doorstep, she fed them.
Which is why her son, Joseph, started the Haiti Micah Project: because his mother said we need to feed the children. It started with a few that grew to 600 every single day. This is the work we have supported here at Epiphany through the Haiti Micah Project.
And when Joseph’s mother’s life was in danger, it was those very children who literally carried her to safety.
So I wonder: Who would we meet in the woods if we were fleeing for our life? Who would stop at the side of the road and say, “It’s me, Mama. I am here to help”? Who have we fed?
Maybe this story from Haiti holds up a mirror so we can see who we really are. Maybe this story from Haiti sketches a picture of who is really great versus who claims they are great.
As followers of Jesus, we get a very consistent, very clear message on what greatness really is. We hear it today from the Book of Acts: “Tabitha, devoted to good works and acts of charity…” (Acts 9:36) is a mama that cared for the people of the early church. She was a role model for what resurrection living, resurrection hope, looks like. Resurrection is not just coming back from the dead, but raising up a community of love—even in the darkest, most difficult times.
And so, I wonder, who are we? Who are we as a people, as a church, as a community, as a nation? Who are we lifting up? Who are we welcoming? Who are we feeding?
When we see the witness of a woman like Joseph’s mother—who had every reason and every resource to settle in America—instead, Haiti remained her home. Instead, she chose to feed the children who showed up at her door. And they remembered.
So, on this Mother’s Day, let us remember too. Let us remember the mothers who fed us, who shaped us, who prayed for us. Today, in particular, let us remember the greatness of the mothers who have made their way to this country—which would include every single one of our mothers back through the generations.