Hurricane Recovery: When God Gives You Floods, You Throw a Church Picnic

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In a grand display of community spirit that can only be described as “very on-brand for a megachurch,” the Biltmore Church in Asheville, North Carolina, threw open its doors to its congregation this past Sunday. It was their first in-person gathering since Hurricane Helene had the audacity to sweep through and, you know, drown some parishioners’ grandkids. Pastor Bruce Frank stood before the flock, his heart heavy yet twinkling with optimism. “Bittersweet” was the word of the day, as survivors rejoiced in seeing each other—some in their brand-new inflatable life rafts.

Pastor Frank’s sermon was a masterpiece of understatement, detailing the losses with all the flair of a man commenting on the weather. “A lot of loss,” he said, while surely wishing to add that this must have been quite the eye-opener for those still clutching their church envelopes. Among the victims of Helene’s flooding was the Drye family; their 7-year-old grandson Micah tragically became a new “water feature” atop their roof.

But fret not! In a dazzling display of irony, the church mobilized to help their devastated neighbors by transforming their parking lot into an impromptu disaster relief hub. Who needs real aid when you have a church parking lot? They’re serving up ice, water, and assorted “critically necessary” goods that range from diapers to, presumably, the “Holy Spirit in a bottle.”

The church has even set up a donation webpage cleverly named 828Strong, suggesting you might be steered toward the idea that a zip code can solve everything. As church members continue to provide support, they’re utilizing the most relevant biblical lesson of all: that “faith without works is dead,” all while they wrangle up some serious mobile meal action. One can almost picture a holy food truck with “Baked and Blessed” emblazoned across it.

Meanwhile, two hours away in Boone, overachievers from Samaritan’s Purse (a charity headed by the evangelical Franklin Graham because why not?) are zipping around like caffeinated squirrels, distributing coffee, food, and Internet via Starlink to those still mentally processing the fact that their entire lives just got whisked away. They’re even offering oxygen tanks, though it feels a tad like offering a life jacket to someone whose ship has already sunk.

Franklin Graham, who somehow manages to find the silver lining amongst all that flooding, remarked that politics were temporarily drowned out by the sound of chainsaws and helicopters. “It’s refreshing,” he expounded, while the rest of America holds its breath for the next election cycle to turn everything back to its usual dystopian chaos.

On the other side of the ripples, Eight Days of Hope is whipping up rapid responses like caffeinated church volunteers on steroids. Their logic seems to be: why not sprinkle hope in the form of a hot shower and freshly laundered clothes while the floodwaters still swirl? It’s practically “Shower & Cheer” with a side of “Disaster Class 101.”

And in the grand tradition of human absurdity, the Salvation Army, who has miraculously transcended their role by serving meals and restoring faith in selfless acts, has also dispatched workers to Florida, because why deal with one disaster when you can spread yourself thin over two?

As the Baptist State Convention’s Todd Unzicker accurately forecasted, the challenges ahead may seem daunting, particularly as the world remembers there’s also an election to dangle in front of them like a shiny object. But fear not, for North Carolina Baptists, energized by a collective high from the crisis, stand ready to reshape history with a prayer and a pickup truck, even as they navigate the floodwaters of uncertainty.

In a beautiful capstone to this bizarre spectacle, Pastor Frank remarked that the hurricane has done what COVID-19 could not: unite his congregation. “Unlike COVID, which tore people apart, this has brought people together,” because nothing screams community bonding like a collective tragedy, and perhaps a church play on disaster bingo they didn’t even know they were playing.