This past January 12^th at 4:53 p.m. an earthquake that registered 7.0 on the Richter Scale shook the city of Port au Prince, Haiti and the surrounded area. Buildings collapsed. People were trapped. People were killed. People were scared. Chaos erupted throughout the country. People began to tear away the collapsed buildings with their bare hands. Picking up blocks of concrete, people worked to free children, family members, neighbors, and strangers.

As time passed, images began to flood the worldwide media. Pictures of people covered in the dust of collapsed concrete brought back to mind the images of people covered in the ashes and debris of the twin towers. Rough videos shot from cell phone cameras were played in an endless loop as the world looked on. Before and after comparisons of the royal palace caused gasps among the world population glued to television sets and internet news outlets.

Estimations of the damage began to be shared in two categories: dollars and dead. Television commentators searched out experts to interview and shock at the images continued. More videos flooded the media. People were looking for their loved ones. Voices could still be heard calling out for rescue from under the rubble. Those who were able struggled against thirst and exhaustion as they pulled apart buildings using bare hands and one shovel.

Pain was everywhere: in the faces of the injured, in the faces of the rescued, in the faces of the searchers. In those few seconds when the earth shook, poverty and wealth collapsed too and pain became the great equalizer.

In too short of a time, darkness began to fall on the city of Port au Prince. The earthquake had knocked out power to the entire city and millions of survivors were plunged into the darkness of night. There was no safe shelter so the people stayed in the streets, hoping the aftershocks would be mild. Those who could, lay down and slept.

In the darkness, noises from the city could be heard clearly. The voices of those still trapped called out. The moans of the injured were carried on the wind. The cries of those who had lost so much echoed in the darkness.

But faintly at first and then gaining volume a new sound began to emerge. In the rhythmic language of Creole, singing was heard. In the midst of the death and destruction, people lifted their voice in song. In the midst of pain and suffering people sang out. And there was power in the song.

The song wasn’t just about death and suffering but about hope and resurrection. The song was not about loss and grief but about freedom and survival. Above the noise of the tears came a song of hope. Hope not only to buoy the spirits of those who were still trapped, but hope for those who had been lost. From out of the dust of the collapsed buildings came a song of hope, a word of freedom, a blessing for the suffering.

The message of that song was something that would echo throughout the night and through the many days, months and on into the many upcoming years of Haiti’s recovery. The song’s message was first shouted out in amazement, fear, confusion, and joy some 2000 years ago in another region to a people who were also suffering from loss.

Some people were surprised to hear that there was singing in the streets of Port au Prince the night after the earthquake. Some people were amazed and thought that those singing had lost their minds in the grief. Some people tried to explain away the singing as though it was some uneducated and inappropriate response to the tragedy.

But to some the song was like cool water in the desert. To some the song was like the feeling of a parent comforting a child. To some the song was a celebration of freedom in the midst of collapsed bonds. To some theologians listening in, the song was a declaration of faith.

The long nights turned into long days as the search continued. Stories of rescue and loss continued. The calls for tending to the needs of the people continued and many responded. Graves were dug for the dead who had been dug out of the buildings. Tarps were put up to provide shelter for those who lived. Children searched for parents and parents for children and the whole world was touched by the grief, the poverty, the pain.

But in the nights and at times during the days alongside the cries and the tears, the song continued to ring out from the lips of those with breath left inside them. Rescuers were amazed at one woman, Anna Zizi, who was 79 years old. As she was pulled from the rubble of a collapsed church 7 days after the earthquake, she also lifted her voice in song. It was a song about hope in the face of death, a song of faith. And those who had pulled her out, strangers and family members sang out too. Even those who did not know the language needed no translation for Anna’s song of faith.

For those who had felt the earth shake on that clear January afternoon, life would never be the same. Even now, months later, life is not back to what it was before in Haiti nor will it ever be the same. People still mourn. People still search for scattered family. People still hurt. But the people still sing.

What kind of song is it that aches to be released even in the midst of suffering? What song would make sense in the presence of such loss? What song could bring a word of hope to survivors in the rubble of destruction?

About two thousand years ago Mary began this song when in the midst of mourning and disappointment, she ran to proclaim, "I have seen the Lord." These simple words spoken to the hurting disciples, were words of hope in the midst of despair, words of comfort in the midst of pain, words of victory in the midst of what had been certain defeat.

There was singing in Port au Prince the night after the earthquake. In the night, as those who suffered listened, it was proclaimed with gaining volume. Even though the world may look for all purposes as though it is Good Friday every day, Easter has dawned. Even in the darkness of night, when the power is out and millions cry in pain, Easter dawns.

The people sing of resurrection not because it makes sense but because it is true. The people sing of resurrection not to pacify those who have lost loved ones but because it is true. The people sing of resurrection because God began the song two thousand years ago and continues to sing it now – through voices in the midst of suffering, through voices in the midst of joy at simply being alive.

Questions were asked in the days and weeks after the earthquake. Questions such as, "How could God allow this to happen?" Tough questions – questions for which I have yet to hear a trustworthy answer. The theologians-on-call to the media news channels were all asked this question in some form or another. Some offered answers that were blatantly wrong. Others skirted the question.

I think the best answer came from the lips of the people in Port au Prince that night. We cannot hope to fully answer the question of why, but the only answer we have to offer is the answer of love God gave through Christ. Death and destruction are not the final answer. The world did not stop at Good Friday because Easter dawned and the tomb was empty, and the Lord was raised, and the song began.

We gather here on the Easter morning to hear that song – God’s word of resurrection. In the early 1800s a Baptist minister, Robert Wadsworth Lowry penned these words:

My life flows on in endless song:

Above earth's lamentation,

I catch the sweet, tho' far-off hymn

That hails a new creation.

Through all the tumult and the strife

I hear the music ringing;

It finds an echo in my soul--

How can I keep from singing?

There was singing in Port au Prince the night after the earthquake.