5th Sunday of Lent @ Ss. Francis and Clare, Birch Run

Found in Translation: The Voice that Pierces the Silence

The Neon Tomb

In the 2003 film Lost in Translation, Bill Murray plays Bob Harris, an aging American movie star who finds himself in Tokyo to film a whiskey commercial. Throughout the movie, Bob is surrounded by the frantic energy of one of the most vibrant cities on earth—neon lights, thumping arcade music, and a sea of people—yet he is profoundly, devastatingly "stuck."

He spends his nights sitting on the edge of a bed in a sterile, high-end hotel room, staring blankly at a television he doesn’t understand. He is suffering from a spiritual insomnia. He is breathing, he is moving, and he is earning a paycheck, but he is a "living ghost." He is "lost in translation" not just because he doesn't speak Japanese, but because he has lost the ability to communicate with his own life. He is entombed in a gilded cage of mid-life apathy.

We recognize Bob because many of us have spent time in that same hotel room of the soul. We know what it is like to be "lost in translation"—to feel that the prayers we say are hitting the ceiling, that our marriages have become scripts we are merely reading, or that our faith has become a "dry bone" in a valley of busy-ness. We are physically alive, but internally, we are waiting for someone to say something that actually makes sense, something that reaches across the silence and calls us back to life.

As we arrive at this Fifth Sunday of Lent, the scriptures present us with three different "tombs" and one singular Voice that translates the silence of death into the language of hope.

The Language of the Spirit

Today’s readings offer a progressive revelation of God’s power to "translate" us from death to life. We move from a national vision of dry bones to a theological definition of life in the Spirit, finally arriving at a tear-stained tomb in Bethany.

The Vision of Re-Collection: Ezekiel 37:12-14 In the first reading, the Israelites are in exile. They aren't just sad; they are existentially "lost." They say, "Our bones are dried up, our hope is lost, and we are cut off." They feel like Bob Harris in that Tokyo hotel—surrounded by a foreign culture, stripped of their identity, and spiritually dead.

But God speaks through Ezekiel with a promise that is physically jarring. He doesn't just promise to cheer them up; He promises to open their graves. The Hebrew word used here for "Spirit" is Ruah, which also means "breath" or "wind." God is telling a people who have "run out of breath" that He is going to perform a divine resuscitation. He is the God who translates "dry bones" into a "living army." The message is clear: the grave is not a dead end for God; it is a construction site.

The Theology of Indwelling: Romans 8:8-11 St. Paul, writing to the Romans, explains how this translation happens. He contrasts "the flesh" with "the Spirit." For Paul, "the flesh" is the state of being "lost in translation"—it is a life lived purely on a horizontal, material plane where we are subject to decay, anxiety, and ultimate silence.

But then Paul drops the hammer of hope: "If the Spirit of the one who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, the one who raised Christ from the dead will give life to your mortal bodies also." This is a staggering claim. It means that the same "translation power" that brought Jesus out of the cave is currently pulsing through your veins. We aren't just "waiting for heaven"; we are carrying the architecture of the Resurrection inside us right now. If we feel "dead" inside, it is often because we have forgotten to breathe the air of the Spirit that has already been given to us.

The Reality of the Voice: John 11:1-45 This brings us to the Gospel of John and the raising of Lazarus. This is the ultimate "lost in translation" moment. Lazarus is not just sleeping; he is four days dead. In the cultural understanding of the time, this meant he was "totally lost"—the soul had left, and the body had begun to "stench."

When Jesus arrives, He encounters two women, Martha and Mary, who are stuck in the "if only" stage of grief. "Lord, if you had been here..." They are trapped in the past. They are looking at the stone and seeing an exclamation point, while Jesus looks at the stone and sees a comma.

Jesus’s reaction is the most human moment in the New Testament: He weeps. He doesn't offer a theological lecture on the afterlife. He enters into the "translation" of our pain. He feels the weight of the neon-lit loneliness that Bob Harris felt; He feels the dryness of Ezekiel’s bones. He weeps because death is an "incorrect translation" of God’s plan for humanity.

Then, He acts. He commands: "Take away the stone." Martha, ever the pragmatist, warns Him about the smell. But Jesus isn't looking for a "clean" miracle; He wants the messy one. He cries out in a loud voice: 

"Lazarus, come out!"

This is the "Lost in Translation" moment resolved. In the movie, there is a famous final scene where Bill Murray whispers something into Scarlett Johansson’s ear. The audience never hears it, but we see the effect: she smiles, she is "found," and she is able to move forward. In the Gospel, we do hear the whisper, and it is a shout. Jesus calls Lazarus by name. He reaches into the silence of the tomb and translates "dead" into "brother."

When Lazarus emerges, he is still bound. Jesus gives the final command to the community: "Untie him and let him go."The miracle is Christ’s, but the "unbinding" is ours.

Speaking the Language of Life

We are currently in the final stretch of Lent. The "stones" are still in front of many of our hearts. How do we move from the "Tokyo hotel room" of our souls to the light of the Resurrection?

1. Identify Your "Four-Day" Stench. What is the thing in your life that you have declared "dead and buried"? A dream you gave up on? A relationship you’ve decided is beyond repair? A sin you think is too "stinky" for God to touch? This week, stop trying to spray perfume on the stone. Like Martha, admit the stench to Jesus. In prayer, say: "Lord, this part of me is decaying. I am taking away the stone. Speak into this silence."

2. Practice "Spiritual Breathing." If the Spirit (Ruah) is what gives life to our mortal bodies, we need to learn how to breathe again. Most of us are "holding our breath" through life—living in a state of constant stress and "flesh-driven" anxiety. This week, commit to five minutes of "Holy Breath." Sit in silence, inhale the "Ruah" of God, and exhale the "refuse" of the flesh. Remind yourself: The Spirit of Him who raised Jesus dwells in me. Let that truth translate your fear into peace.

3. Be an "Un-binder" for Someone Else. Lazarus couldn't untie himself. He was alive, but he was still wrapped in the symbols of his past. There is someone in your life—a child, a spouse, a co-worker—who has started to "come out" of a dark place, but they are still carrying the "burial bands" of their old reputation or their old mistakes. This week, your job is to "untie them." Give them a word of encouragement that focuses on who they are now, not who they were in the tomb. Help them let go of the "linen" of their past.

At the end of Lost in Translation, the characters go their separate ways, but they are no longer "stuck." They have been heard. They have been seen.

Today, the Word of God does more than just see you. He breathes into you. He calls you by name. He stands at the mouth of whatever tomb you’ve built for yourself and He shouts through the neon noise of the world: "Come out!"

Don’t stay in the waiting room. The stone has been moved. The translation is complete. You are alive. Amen.

4th Sunday of Lent @ Ss. Francis and Clare, Birch Run

The Light in the Clay: A Homily for Laetare Sunday

The Street Sign on Campus

In graduate school, I had a classmate who lived in a world of sound and touch, yet he navigated it with a grace that was almost disorienting to the rest of us. He would sit in lecture, taking rapid-fire notes on a specialized keyboard that had no screen, his fingers dancing across the keys in perfect sync with the professor’s voice. Out on the quad, he was just as adept, navigating nearly the entire campus with nothing but a white cane with a red tip.

Every now and then, he’d reach a point where he needed a guide. If you stopped and asked where he was headed, he’d simply tell you, reach out to grab your elbow, and follow your lead. He was so completely at ease in his own skin, so confident in his movements, that I would frequently forget he was blind at all. We would be walking and talking, lost in conversation, until the reality of the situation came crashing back in—quite literally. I remember one specific moment where I was so comfortable leading him that I lost my own "situational awareness" and walked him straight into a street sign.

It was a jarring reminder that even when we think we are "the ones who see," we are often just one distracted moment away from leading ourselves and others into a pole. In today’s Gospel, we encounter a man who has spent his entire life in that state of physical darkness, but as the story unfolds, we realize that the people who claim to have perfect vision are the ones actually walking into the metaphorical street signs.

The Conflict of Perception

The Fourth Sunday of Lent, Laetare Sunday, is a pivot point. The word Laetare means "Rejoice," and the readings today challenge us to redefine exactly what it is we are rejoicing in. Is it because we have all the answers? Or is it because, like the man in the Gospel, we have finally admitted we were blind and allowed someone else to lead us?

In the first reading, the prophet Samuel is sent to anoint a new king. He looks at the sons of Jesse and, using his human "eyesight," picks the tallest, strongest, and most impressive candidate. He sees the "kingly" appearance of Eliab and thinks, "Surely this is the Lord’s anointed." But God interrupts his logic: "Not as man sees does God see, because man sees the appearance but the Lord looks into the heart." David, the youngest, the one left out in the fields, wasn't even on the radar. This theme of "hidden chosenness" carries directly into the Gospel.

When Jesus heals the man born blind, He does something visceral and messy. He spits on the ground, stirs the dust into clay, and rubs it onto the man’s eyes. This is a deliberate echo of Genesis—the Creator using the dust of the earth to fashion something new. But the healing doesn't happen instantly. The man has to walk to the Pool of Siloam and wash. He has to participate in his own miracle. He has to trust the "elbow" of the One leading him before he can see the path for himself.

The tragedy of the story begins once the man can see. The Pharisees, the religious leaders of the day, have perfect physical vision. They are experts in the Law. They know every "street sign" and boundary marker in their faith. Yet, they are spiritually blind. They are so caught up in the technicalities of the Sabbath and their preconceived notions of how a Messiah should act that they become calcified. To them, the "law" had become a blindfold.

They interrogate the man, they intimidate his parents, and they eventually cast him out. Why? Because the man’s healing disrupted their orderly, predictable world. To acknowledge the miracle would mean acknowledging that they, the experts, had missed God standing right in front of them. The man’s response to their complex theological grilling is the ultimate shield of the simple heart: "Whether he is a sinner, I do not know. One thing I do know is that I was blind and now I see."

St. Paul, writing to the Ephesians, brings this home. He says, "You were once darkness, but now you are light in the Lord." Notice he doesn't say we were in the darkness; he says we were darkness. Our transformation isn't just a change of scenery; it’s a change of nature. We are called to "produce every kind of goodness and righteousness and truth." This requires a shift in how we perceive our daily lives. Are we looking at our neighbors, our challenges, and our world through the eyes of the Pharisees—looking for faults and reasons to exclude? Or are we looking through the eyes of Christ, who sees the potential for beauty in the "clay" of our common humanity?

Walking as Children of Light

So, how do we live out this "Laetare" joy in the coming week? If we are to move from being "darkness" to being "light," we must practice a different kind of vision.

First, admit where you are blind. Like my classmate on campus, there are times when we simply cannot navigate the path on our own. We need to reach out and "grab the elbow" of the Lord in prayer. This week, identify one area of your life—a relationship, a habit, or a fear—where you’ve been trying to navigate through the mist alone. Ask the Lord to apply the "clay" of His grace to your eyes and show you the way.

Second, watch out for the "street signs." We often walk others into obstacles because we think we see better than we actually do. This week, perform a "vision audit." Where have you become so rigid or self-righteous that you’ve become blind to the struggles of the people around you? Choose one person you’ve been quick to judge and intentionally look for the "heart" that God sees in them.

Third, be an uncomplicated witness. The man in the Gospel didn't need a degree in theology to change the world; he just needed to tell his story. You don't need to have all the answers to be a "child of light." You simply need to be honest about how the Light has changed you. Share a word of encouragement, offer a small act of kindness, or simply stand firm in the truth of your own journey.

As we move toward the Eucharist today, let us acknowledge that we are all, in some way, the man by the side of the road. We come to be touched by the Lord, to have our eyes opened, and to be sent out. Let us leave this place not just as people who have seen the light, but as people who are light, reflecting the goodness of the One who called us out of darkness into His wonderful radiance.

Laetare! Rejoice, for the Light has come, and even when we stumble into the signs, He is there to lead us home.

3rd Sunday of Lent @ Ss. Francis and Clare, Birch Run

The Well of Mercy: Finding Living Water in a Thirsty World

Dust and Desperation at Warner Springs

In the late spring of 1997, before I deployed overseas to Japan, I found myself in the high desert of Warner Springs, California. I was a Sailor undergoing Navy SERE School (Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape). The high desert is a landscape of brutal contradictions—scalding heat by day that evaporates the very soul out of your pores, and a bone-chilling cold at night that makes you forget what warmth feels like.

During the "Evasion" phase, we moved through the cactus-choked hills, trying to stay low and silent. Our canteens had been empty for hours.

In that desert, my entire world shrunk down to one singular, agonizing need: water.

And while there were periodic water stations, there were still people who ended up dehydrated or even in one case over-hydrated — all with the expected consequences. It was hard in that situation to find a middle-ground. Obviously, I stand here, 30 years later — a survivor.

In reflection, it can be seen that the physical thirst I felt then was just a physical echo of a deeper, more permanent human condition. We are all, in some way, "evading" the truth or "surviving" a spiritual desert. We are thirsty for more. And today’s readings meet us right there—in the heat, in the dust, to the side of a well.

From the Wilderness to the Well

The Grumbling at Meribah (Exodus 17:3-7)

In our first reading, the Israelites are in their own version of SERE school, but their "deployment" has lasted much longer than a few days — they’ve been at it for years. They are in the wilderness, and they are terrified.

Their thirst leads them to "grumble." In the Hebrew, this isn't just a light complaint; it’s a demanding legalistic protest. They are putting God on trial. They ask the question that every one of us has whispered in the middle of a personal crisis: "Is the Lord among us or not?"

When life gets "dry"—when a marriage struggles, when a medical diagnosis comes back positive, or when the loneliness of creeps in—we tend to do what the Israelites did. We demand that God prove Himself. We want a miracle on our terms. Yet, look at God’s response. He doesn't strike the people for their lack of faith. He tells Moses to strike the rock.

The rock, a symbol of hardness and deadness, yields life-giving water. St. Paul later tells us that this rock was Christ. It is a foreshadowing: the "struck" rock would one day be the side of Jesus pierced by a lance, from which flowed blood and water—the sacraments of the Church.

The Encounter at High Noon (John 4:5-42)

This brings us to the longest, most intimate conversation Jesus has with anyone in the Gospels: the Samaritan woman at the well.

The timing is crucial. It is the "sixth hour"—high noon. In the ancient world, no one went to the well at noon if they could help it. You went at dawn or dusk when it was cool. The woman is there at noon because she is "evading" her neighbors. She is an outcast, a woman with a "reputation," and she would rather endure the 100-degree sun than the cold stares and gossip of the townspeople.

Jesus is there, "tired from his journey." Think about that: the Creator of the universe is exhausted. He sits by the well and initiates the conversation with a humble request: "Give me a drink." In this moment, Jesus breaks every social "SERE" protocol of His day. He is a Jew speaking to a Samaritan (racial barrier). He is a man speaking to a woman in public (gender barrier). He is a holy man speaking to a "sinner" (moral barrier). He crosses the desert of human prejudice to reach one thirsty soul.

The Shift to "Living Water"
As the dialogue unfolds, Jesus performs a "spiritual reconnaissance" of her heart. He tells her, "If you knew the gift of God and who is saying to you, ‘Give me a drink,’ you would have asked him and he would have given you living water."

The woman is literal-minded, much like I was in Warner Springs. She thinks of buckets and depths. But Jesus is talking about a different kind of dehydration. He points to her five husbands—not to shame her, but to identify the "mirages" she has been chasing. She has been trying to quench a spiritual thirst with human relationships, moving from one "well" to another, only to find herself back in the heat of the noon sun, still thirsty.

When Jesus reveals He is the Messiah, the woman does something symbolic: She leaves her water jar. That jar was her security, her source of survival, and her identity as a water-carrier. By leaving it, she signals that she has found a source that doesn't require a bucket. She becomes a "well" herself, running back to the very people she was avoiding to tell them about the Man who "told me everything I ever did."

Surviving Our Own Desert

So, what does a 30-year-old Navy training exercise and a 2,000-year-old well have to do with us today? Whether you are preparing for a deployment, raising a family, or navigating your golden years, the "desert" is a reality we all face.

1. Identify Your "Mirages"

We all have "water jars"—things we carry that we think will finally satisfy us. For some, it’s professional success; for others, it’s the perfect body, the perfect house, or the approval of strangers on the internet. This week, I want you to look at your "water jar." Is it actually quenching your thirst, or are you just going back to the same dry well every day at noon?

Identify one "mirage" in your life—a habit or an obsession that promises happiness but leaves you dry—and consciously choose to "leave the jar" at the feet of Jesus in prayer this week.

2. Embrace the "High Noon" of Honesty

The Samaritan woman’s life changed because she stopped hiding. She allowed the light of Christ to shine on the parts of her story she was most ashamed of.

Lent is our "High Noon." It is the season to stop "evading" and start "encountering." Approach the Sacrament of Reconciliation. Don’t just list your sins like a grocery list; talk to the Lord about your thirsts. Tell Him where you are hurting and where you are dry. There is no healing without honesty.

3. Be a "Point of Distribution"

In the military, we talk about "PODs"—Points of Distribution—where life-saving supplies are given out. After her encounter, the Samaritan woman became a point of distribution for her entire village.

There are people at work, at school, or even at home who are "hallucinating" from spiritual dehydration. They are desperate for a kind word, for hope, or for a sense of belonging. This week, be the "living water" for someone else. Perform one concrete act of mercy for someone you usually avoid—the "Samaritan" in your life. 

The Hope That Does Not Disappoint

As St. Paul tells us in the second reading, "The love of God has been poured out into our hearts." That word "poured" isn't a trickle; it’s a flood.

None of us can survive a desert alone. Today, Christ sits at the well of this altar. He isn’t asking about our past, our attachments, or our wanderings. He only cares about your thirst.

Don't waste time chasing mirages in the sand. Come to the Water. Leave the jar. And let the Lord turn the desert of your heart into a garden.

2nd Sunday of Lent @ Ss. Francis and Clare, Birch Run

A Glimpse of the Summit: The Grace of the Ascent

The Chaplain’s Ascent: Croagh Patrick, August 2018

In August of 2018, I found myself in County Mayo, Ireland, standing at the base of Croagh Patrick—the "Holy Mountain" where Saint Patrick is said to have fasted for forty days in the year 441. I was there as the chaplain for a group of young adult pilgrims. As we looked up at the daunting, mist-shrouded peak, I think we all felt a bit of that ancient Lenten trepidation. The mountain stands as a silent, stony sentinel over the Atlantic, and its history of penance is etched into every jagged rock.

At 56 years old, I was acutely aware that I wasn’t the youngest or the most athletic member of our group. I watched the twenty-somethings stretching their hamstrings and checking their high-tech gear, feeling every bit of my five-and-a-half decades. As we began the ascent, the grueling reality of the mountain set in. If you have ever climbed "The Reek," you know that the final stretch—the infamous "cone" near the summit—is a punishing wall of loose, shifting grey scree. This is not a stable path; it is a river of vertical stones. For every two steps forward, the sliding rocks seemed to pull you one step back. My lungs were burning, my knees were protesting, and a thick, damp Irish mist had swallowed the trail, making the summit feel like a distant, invisible myth.

There was a moment, leaning heavily on my walking stick and blinking back the mist, where I seriously considered calling it a day. Why am I doing this? I thought. The young people are probably miles ahead of me by now; I should just wait here for them to come back down. The temptation to settle for "good enough" is the greatest enemy of the spiritual life.

But a strange thing happens when you find your rhythm in prayer and persistence. Mustering a final reserve of strength, I pushed through that last vertical scramble. Suddenly, the terrain leveled out, the grey fog thinned, and I realized with a shock that I was standing next to the small, white summit chapel. I looked around, expecting to see my group of young adults already resting—but the summit was quiet. Somehow, at 56, the chaplain had made it to the top first.

In that moment, the heavy mist broke completely. Standing there on the ridge, I was gifted with a breathtaking, sunlit panorama of Clew Bay, with its legendary "365 islands" gleaming like emeralds in the deep blue water. The silence was absolute, broken only by the wind. In that single moment of transcendent beauty, every ounce of the preceding struggle suddenly made perfect sense. I needed that glimpse of glory to understand why I had made the climb.

As a "spiritual scout" for that group, I realized that my role wasn't just to keep up, but to prove that the summit was possible—that the view was worth the grit. This is exactly what the Liturgy of the Word does for us today. It reminds us that no matter our age or our fatigue, the climb toward God is never a fool’s errand.

From the Unknown to the Unveiled Glory

The readings for this Second Sunday of Lent (Cycle A) weave together a profound tapestry of divine calling, the necessity of endurance, and the promise of future glory. They remind us that the journey of faith is rarely easy, but the destination is more glorious than we can imagine.

The Call into the Unknown: Genesis 12:1-4a

Our journey begins with the Call of Abram. God says to him, “Go forth from the land of your kinsfolk... to a land that I will show you.” Notice the profound vulnerability God asks of him. He does not provide a map, a GPS coordinate, or a guaranteed timeline. He simply says, Go. Crucially, the verse immediately following our reading tells us that Abram was seventy-five years old when he departed Haran. If I felt the weight of a mere half-century on the slopes of Croagh Patrick, imagine Abram at 75, being asked to leave his security and his past to become a wanderer for God. At an age when most people are looking for stability, Abram is asked for mobility. His story reminds us that "retirement" is not a biblical concept in the spiritual life. God’s call is always "now." Whether we are 20 or 75, the "mountains" God calls us to climb require us to leave our comfort zones behind, trusting that the Lord who calls us will also sustain us.

Enduring the Valley: 2 Timothy 1:8b-10
Because the journey of faith involves leaving comfort behind, it inevitably involves suffering. St. Paul makes this clear to Timothy. Writing from a cold, damp prison cell, Paul does not sugarcoat the Christian life. He says, 

Bear your share of hardship for the gospel with the strength that comes from God.

Paul knew the valleys of life intimately. He knew what it was like to feel the "scree" of rejection and physical pain. Yet, he is not writing a letter of despair. He reminds Timothy that Christ Jesus "destroyed death and brought life and immortality to light." Paul is telling us that the hardships we face—whether they are the voluntary penances of Lent or the involuntary crosses of illness and grief—are not the end of the story. We can bear the "hardship" because the light of the Resurrection is already burning in the distance.

The Glimpse of Glory: Matthew 17:1-9

This brings us to the Transfiguration. Just prior to this moment, Jesus had revealed that He must go to Jerusalem to suffer and be killed. The disciples were devastated. They were entering a dark forest of doubt, and they wanted to turn back. They wanted a Messiah of immediate victory, not a Messiah of the Cross.

Knowing their faith was shaken, Jesus takes Peter, James, and John up a high mountain. There, He is transfigured. His face shines like the sun; His clothes become white as light. Moses and Elijah appear, representing the Law and the Prophets, all pointing to Jesus as the fulfillment of history.

Why does Jesus do this? He does it to give them a "Tabor moment"—a brief, dazzling revelation of His divine glory. He is essentially saying, When you see me on the cross, remember me on the mountain. When the mist of Good Friday swallows the world, remember this light. Peter is so overwhelmed he wants to stay—he wants the summit without the descent. But the Father’s voice interrupts: "This is my beloved Son... listen to him." When they fall in fear, Jesus touches them and says, "Rise, and do not be afraid." They cannot stay on the mountain; they must carry that light back down into the valley of the shadow of death.

Carrying the Light into the Valley

The scriptures today are a direct blueprint for our own spiritual lives. As we continue this Lenten hike, how do we respond?

1. Reclaim Your "Tabor Moments" 

In the spiritual life, we all experience "desolation"—when God feels distant and the climb feels pointless. In those moments, you must be like a hiker who keeps a photo of the summit in his pocket. Look back at your life. Recall the moments when God's presence was undeniable—a retreat, a moment of deep peace in prayer, or a time when grace carried you through a crisis. Hold onto those memories. God gives us those glimpses of glory precisely to sustain us when the trail gets dark and the rocks shift under our feet.

2. Be a Scout for Others 

Just as I found myself at the top of Croagh Patrick ahead of my group, some of you are "spiritual scouts" for your families, your children, or your coworkers. Your persistence in faith, despite your age or your struggles, serves as a beacon. When others see you continuing to "climb"—continuing to pray, to serve, and to hope despite the "scree" of life—it gives them the courage to keep going. Your grey hair or your years of experience are not barriers; they are your credentials as a witness that the mountain can be conquered.

3. Listen and Rise 

Finally, we must heed the command of the Father: "Listen to Him." To listen to Jesus is to align our pace with His. Lent is our time to tune out the noise of the world and listen to the voice of the Master. And then, we must heed the words of Jesus: "Rise, and do not be afraid." We cannot build tents on the mountain. We are called to take the grace we receive at this altar and carry it down into our homes and workplaces.

The hike of Lent continues. The trail may be steep, and the "cone" of our personal struggles may feel insurmountable. But do not turn back. Lift up your eyes, remember the radiant face of Christ on Tabor and the sun over Clew Bay, and keep climbing. The glory of Easter is waiting just beyond the ridge.