Dear Saints in Santa Fe, and other far-off places: Greetings in the name and spirit of Jesus Christ! A stained-glass window with my name at the bottom. My grandpa held several jobs in Wheeling, West Virginia, and one was supervisor of the family coal mine. He later suffered from Black Lung Disease because he had insisted on going down into the mine with the miners. The youngest of three sons in a German family (he was born Heinrich Wilhelm which filtered down to me as Harry William) he later had the opportunity of a lifetime to take a great job in Cleveland in the shipping industry working with the Steinbrenner family (i.e., George of Yankee owner fame) but his older brothers convinced him to stay in Wheeling to take care of their ailing mother. As the younger brother, he did.

Dear Saints in Santa Fe, and other far-off places: Greetings in the name and spirit of Jesus Christ! Doubt upon the mountain. I would have thought after spending 28 chapters with Jesus, following him, sharing meals, witnessing his healings, hearing his sermons, and breathing in the good news every day the eleven disciples would be on board. Not so. Matthew 28:16-20, the final words of the gospel, says they worshiped him, “but some doubted.” Why doubt then of all times? Perhaps they doubted Jesus came back after he was crucified. Did they actually see him, as many maintained, or was it the spirit of the Risen Christ? Or were they just alone on the mountain facing an uncertain future?

Dear Saints in Santa Fe, and other far-off places: Greetings in the name and spirit of Jesus Christ! Jesus sits for his portrait. I did once. Back in my first church when a young woman who painted in oils asked me to sit for my portrait. I was flattered. Until I realized she only wanted me for my black clergy robe because it had folds in the sleeves. She needed to practice her sleeve folds! Fair enough. So I agreed and after many sittings the day arrived for its unveiling. The sleeves looked great. Me? I looked faintly like a young Robert Redford in his Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid days, minus the mustache, which means it looked nothing like me at all.

Dear Saints in Santa Fe, and other far-off places: Greetings in the name and spirit of Jesus Christ! The Seven Mile Walk. I remember reading a story years ago about a young high school football player who ran 82 yards for a touchdown. It was a Friday night game under the lights in front of his hometown fans, his parents, and his girlfriend. Eighty-two yards! He was on top of the world that night and he expected his life to be filled with more accomplishments like this. It never was. How sad to me. Nothing would ever be as good as that Friday night on a football field, that life would never get to the eighty-third yard.

Dear Saints in Santa Fe, and other far-off places: Greetings in the name and spirit of Jesus Christ! I never thought much about Holy Saturday before. It has always been a day of preparation, to catch my breath after Holy Week which seems to be more busy and anxiety-provoking than I think. So, I spend my Saturday consumed with the Easter sermon I give the next day. Can I find the right angle? Do I have the right message? Is it good enough? Will anyone remember it?