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Good morning. As soon as I heard about the South Korean ferry disaster yesterday other images came to my mind – the Costa Concordia and then the Zeebrugge tragedy, now more than 25 years ago. We always hope such terrible events don’t get repeated. But human error or adverse weather conditions create inevitable dangers. The added sorrow this time is that many of the victims were so young. When someone we love, especially one of our children, dies suddenly, we may feel our own life has lost its meaning. That’s the terror of grief. This tragedy in South Korea has happened in the week when Christians all over the world remember the death of Jesus and the terror and grief of his mother and his friends. There were lots of tears in that story and there are plenty in South Korea now. The newly bereaved don’t usually want theological arguments about why these things happen. Human hearts cry out instead for friends who will share their suffering. Grief is often intensified when suffered entirely alone. In Korea many still wait anxiously for news of loved ones. Those whose relatives are safe will have their joy tempered by the worry of others. We pray for them all. Dozens of ships and helicopters have joined in the rescue operation. My memory of the Zeebrugge disaster is that stories gradually emerged of heroic rescue efforts, and of extraordinary courage on the part of passengers. Let’s hope that’s so here as well. Someone on the Zeebrugge ferry wrote this afterwards: “Tragedy does not take away love: it increases it. Perhaps we are more loving people, more sensitive, more concerned for each other because of that moment of grief which overthrew our ideas of what things matter…” Little wonder then we’re already hearing about text messages from the Korean ferry pledging love. No-one can reverse a tragedy like the one in South Korea. But for Christians, the events of this Holy Week lead us to believe that there is no tragedy which cannot be redeemed. We wish something dreadful had not happened, yet somehow hope refuses to die, and love is not extinguished. On Saturday evening in Norwich Cathedral, as in many churches, we shall light a fire outside just as dusk falls. A huge candle is lit from the fire and carried into the darkened building. It seems a tiny, fragile light in such a vast space, easily snuffed out. But it’s a sign of hope. From it other candles will be lit until the whole place is ablaze with light. Our hope for the world doesn’t ignore suffering and death. But we can dare to believe that love isn’t defeated, whether on a cross in Jerusalem 2,000 years ago or in South Korea today.