Comment: I am a Sherlock Holmes* fan. In early 1983, I got to wondering what would happen if Sherlock Holmes investigated the Resurrection. On Good Friday evening, I decided to go to work on a short, short story to be used the Sunday after Easter during a congregational hymn sing. I already had a sermon started for Easter Sunday.

As I began to write, I heard the voices and literally let the story flow from what I was hearing. After working two hours I had two problems. One, the story was already a page longer than my original goal for length, and I wasn't halfway through the story. Two, I didn't have the foggiest idea how the story was going to come out!

It was a restless night, though no story elements worked their way to the surface as I tossed and turned. I was facing a pressure-filled circumstance in the weeks to come and had no room in my consciousness for creativity.

The next morning, I drove myself to finish tasks I had to get done so that I could get back to the Holmes story. I wanted to know what was going to happen next! I worked four hours on it that afternoon. And the ending surprised me!

I used the story for my Easter sermon, I liked it so much. In reading it at the Easter service, I even tried to use accents from the British Isles for some of the characters. Unfortunately, I could not satisfy my ear for Holmes and Watson. And I did not have it in shape for use by members of the congregation, something that could be done fairly easily, given more time.

If you try your hand at this premise, your effort could be very different from mine. I would certainly not be surprised or hurt! I have already had my reward, having the story happen to me, like listening to Dr. Watson himself tell it!

*Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

One would expect a day in late March to be dreary in London, but this was a gem. We could see the top of the Cathedral fully four miles away from our digs at 221B Baker Street. Rarely is the air so clear, and on this particular day, so warm in the early spring. It was Good Friday.

My friend, Sherlock Holmes, was not religious in the traditional sense, and, though I attended services of a Sunday as a rule, I seldom attended the extra services surrounding holidays.

"It is a marvel to see the Cathedral from here," Holmes remarked as he took in the loveliness of the day. "You don't suppose God is trying to tell me something," he said with a cheerful smile. No pietist, he, nor ordinarily concerned with theological matters, he occasionally astonished me with his awareness of things religious.

"I dare say the gentleman coming from the carriage to our door is a clergyman of some high post," Holmes observed.

I joined him at the window and saw an elderly, well-dressed gentleman, quite unassuming in appearance.

"How do you know he's from the church?" I asked.

"Elementary. I have seen the man conduct services at the Cathedral!"

Ordinarily, Holmes deduces a great deal from items of apparel, jewelry, and other visible things. Indeed, I would have laughed were it not for the worried look upon the good Anglican priest's face as he glanced up toward our window.

Mrs. Hudson ushered him in momentarily, and Holmes, in his accustomed fashion, graciously seated him and put his cloak and cane in the closet.

"Your worship, this is my friend, Dr. John Watson, emanuensis of my trifling adventures. Whatever your concern, I'm certain you may trust his discretion."

"Grace and peace to you both," our elderly guest began. "Mr. Holmes, I am fully aware of your agnosticism regarding matters of belief. I may be imposing, but I am desperate for an unusual kind of help."

"Pray tell us what concerns you. We will be of help in any way we can."

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, can you prove the resurrection of our Lord Jesus Christ?" the priest blurted out.

"That is an astonishing task to which you would put me," Holmes replied, raising his voice a little. "What causes this matter of faith to become so specific an historical concern to you?"

"There are always those laity who strike out at the Church for some real or imagined wrong they believe the Church has perpetrated against them," the priest began. "They pick up on such as Saint Matthew gives in his gospel about the soldiers telling the city folk the disciples stole the body. We are accustomed to such attacks. They rarely cause a ripple in the Church. However, a very different matter has come to my attention and it bodes ill for the Church. The Archbishop of Canterbury himself has become extremely depressed of late. His homilies have become more and more gloomy."

"A nervous breakdown, perhaps," I suggested.

"Perhaps, Dr. Watson," he replied, "but it has none of the typical antecedents of overwork and ill health. This year has been especially good for the Archbishop. There have been few personnel or financial difficulties, and relationships with the Methodists and the Romans have been amicable. His being celibate, there are none of the marital difficulties that often accompany or even cause such a condition. No, we are quite sure he is not mentally ill."

"There are tumors that disorient a person or change a personality," I further volunteered.

"But there are no headaches and no motor dysfunctions, my good doctor. He is well-coordinated and suffers naught," the clergyman pointed out.

"Is there a genesis for his symptoms, a time when something important occurred that may be causing so sad a set of symptoms?" Holmes inquired.

"He has been loath to address his languor or our concern. But on one occasion he mentioned something about a time device of some sort."

"A clock? How odd," I opined.

"Oh, no. Dr. Watson, a device that moves people through time. H. G. Wells has come upon such a device and shared his discovery with the Archbishop. The Archbishop has not been the same since. But he has given no further clues to help us help him."

"I've heard of such a device. It would appear that the Archbishop may have been duped by Dr. Wells," Holmes remarked.

"We thought of that, too, Mr. Holmes. But upon inquiring, we heard denials from Dr. Wells and, indeed, found him to be most open and obviously concerned."

"This is most peculiar. I have an idea how we might help. This is a serious day for you, so we shall take no more of your time, Your Grace. We will be in touch," Holmes said as he retrieved the cane and cloak belonging to his guest.

"Much obliged," the reverend said, "and God bless you, Mr. Holmes."

They bowed respectfully toward one another and the clergyman was gone.

"All the credible are not possible, thus leaving only the incredible remaining to be true. Watson, it appears there is to be a most peculiar journey ahead."

There was indeed. We had some difficulty working our way to the laboratory of Dr. Wells because there were only a few carriages available due to the holy day. And then we hit a fanatic who would only allow a fare to go a mile at which point he would stand and claim to ride further would be work on a holy day. Holmes' effort to resolve the mystery of the Resurrection had an awkward beginning.

We attained the Wells residence after considerable walking. He ushered us in, almost as though we were expected.

"I must admit I have been worried about the Archbishop. He was most upset when he returned," Dr. Wells shared with us.

"He apparently happened upon evidence that the Resurrection did not occur," Holmes suggested.

"So it would seem, Mr. Holmes," Dr. Wells replied. "Not having gone along, I could not begin to say what he found."

"May I have the privilege of a journey in your time vehicle, sir?" my friend asked.

"Of course, Mr. Holmes. I will prepare the machine."

"Tomorrow, Dr. Wells?" Holmes proposed.

"That will be fine. About 11 a.m. then?" Dr. Wells offered.

With a nod, Holmes accepted and went to the door.

"Come along. Watson, We have much homework to do."

He spent the early evening poring over the Gospel stories of the Resurrection, studying maps of Jerusalem and surrounding territories, and anything else he could find in his amazing library. And then he sat until the wee hours of the morning, pondering the matter midst a heavy haze of smoke from his shag.

He was still worried when we made our way to Dr. Wells' laboratory. He and Dr. Wells spoke at length in low tones. Then Holmes thoroughly examined the time machine inside and out.

"There still is a matter that concerns me greatly. I am fluent in Norwegian, French, and German, but there was no time to study Middle Eastern languages last night. What was the Archbishop's experience?" Holmes inquired.

"He spoke not of it, Mr. Holmes," Dr. Wells replied, "but he did not complain either."

"Then let me be off," Holmes responded. He climbed into the contraption. It began to vibrate and then to shake rather violently. I became alarmed and rushed toward it to help my friend when it suddenly stopped. Holmes jumped out safely, thank goodness.

"Thank you, Doctor. Come Watson, we must now interview the Archbishop," he said as he strode rapidly toward the door.

He was silent as we rode to the Cathedral. It being Saturday, the streets were not busy. The fine weather held and there were hopes that Easter would be celebrated in such a sunny condition.

The Archbishop was sitting in his office. His drapes were drawn and the bright sun barely crept through the folds to dimly illumine the ornate room. Around him were books, papers, and a supply of pens and ink. But none of the books were opened, and there was not a mark upon the papers.

His training as a gentleman slowly brought him to his feet as we were ushered in by his assistant, the clergyman who had come to us the day before. The Archbishop's face was grave, careworn, and there was as little life in his eyes as there was light in the room. He said nothing.

"Thank you for allowing me this interview, Your Grace," Holmes greeted him. We took seats next to his desk and Holmes went right to his subject.

"I was there, too," he said.

"Holmes, you what?" I fairly shouted. "You never left that infernal machine!"

"Watson, Watson, it is a time machine, and it was set to return me barely a moment after I left. I was there for the better part of twenty hours. And I believe it will help the Archbishop to report my perambulations and studies."

For the first time, the eyes of the Archbishop focussed intently on my friend, waiting, and, it appeared, hoping.

"Your grace, let me pass over the Resurrection. The boy is alive."

"He's ... alive? But how? How did you...?" stammered the patriarch.

"I know that faith is usually able to fill in around the absence of facts or even contradiction in facts; and the Gospels are replete with both when it comes to the Resurrection stories. One angel or two in the tomb or none? Could Jesus be touched or could he not? To whom did he first appear?"

"No exegetical theology, please, Mr. Holmes, tell me about the boy." The Archbishop was on his feet imploring my companion, life returning to his eyes, tempered by the dread that Holmes might not be on the mark.

"I was able to move him before you arrived. It was difficult to communicate the danger, but I was able to entice him away from where you landed by a little string magic my grandmother taught me when I was a child. Dr. Wells told me when and where you landed when you returned to the time of Christ. I examined the vehicle and found traces of blood and hair on one corner, and surmised a dreadful accident had occurred. So we reset the device to get me there before you and with enough time for me to save the boy."

"Where did you set down? Jerusalem was so crowded that even the rock called Golgotha where I landed had pilgrims camping upon it."

"I chose the Valley of Hinnom. Although there were many poor, deformed souls in the garbage heaps of Jerusalem, there are places on the slopes that I felt the machine could land safely. We succeeded in hitting a level spot, but as Watson here will attest, it was quite unstable and was a most shaky landing. I made my way to Golgotha in plenty of time and found the boy."

"Oh, Mr. Holmes! Oh, Mr. Holmes! You can't know the relief I feel! How could anyone have understood my guilt? It had never occurred to me that I could cause so grievous a death, fulfilling an ego trip like that. I was so stricken, I could not even speak to Dr. Wells when I returned. Oh, Mr. Holmes ... My, but it is dark in here. Let me open the drapes!"

The old man fairly sprang from his place next to my companion to give the sun a chance to pour in. It was as if he had been raised from the dead!

Before us, back on Baker Street, sat a marvelous lamb stew Mrs. Hudson had prepared for us for our evening meal. Holmes pounced upon it with delight. He had enjoyed the sunny ride back from the Cathedral as had I. But now my curiosity built up and I desired to ascertain what else he'd done during the time he was there.

"Yes, Watson, I'll tell you," he said in response to my query.

"Arriving well before the Archbishop did, I set out to be sure I found the proper tomb. I could have followed the Archbishop, but I chose to investigate on my own. There are two tombs, according to scholars, that seem to have been where Jesus of Nazareth could have been buried. I went to both to be sure I knew which it was. The one beneath Golgotha had a small troop of Roman guards. The other did not, so I decided the first had to be it.

"Just before the Archbishop was due to arrive, I went and found the boy and removed him from danger.

"Very early the next morning, before sunup, I made my way to the tomb. To my surprise, there was no Roman guard. I thought I had made a mistake, but I was not about to try to get to the other tomb. I took my chances and decided to have a closer look. The stone was still over the opening to the tomb. I rolled it back. It was a most difficult struggle, but Mrs. Hudson's good meals fueled my effort.

"The eastern sky was by now fairly light and I felt it would allow me to see inside. The tomb was empty.

"Just then, the women came out. The first ray of the sun came through the entrance and struck me. It startled the women so that they turned and ran.

"By the light I now had, I could see the cloths left behind. They had been neatly folded. Just then, I heard the Archbishop approach, so I stepped back into the shadows. The women, having regained their composure, returned. They seemed to see us both. This time, they did not run.

"The Archbishop, knowing Aramaic, told them Jesus was gone, and that they would see him in Galilee."

"But how do you suppose the Archbishop was able to come, having thought he'd killed the boy?" I asked.

"My dear Watson, he had come in well into the evening when it was dark and there was little movement among the campers. He did not realize the vehicle had struck the boy. He found the child crushed beneath it when he returned after his visit to the tomb. I'm sure he attempted to help the child but may have had to flee in the time vehicle when the people misunderstood and threatened him."

"What happened to the Roman guard?" I wondered.

"It seems there was a mix-up and the overnight assignment was not taken. The guard appeared after the women and the Archbishop had left. I was outside examining the ground for signs of the presence of others who might have come in the night to steal the body of Jesus. I hid myself when the soldiers appeared, so they did not see me. They were quite angry to find no guard, to find the tomb opened, and to find it empty. My smattering of Italian helped me understand they worked out a story about an angel putting its muscle upon them. They left hastily.

"Then came two men, Peter and John, I presume, who noticed the way the grave cloths lay. They, too, left hurriedly.

"I waited in the shrubbery, expecting Mary Magdalene any moment. The wait was fruitful in a remarkable way. She was a very striking woman. She almost made me forget Irene Adler!

"As I watched, a man I had not seen before came and spoke with her. He was simply clothed and ordinary looking. But Mary, if my recollection of the Gospel of John is correct, apparently took him to be Jesus and she fell on her knees. He spoke briefly to her. She rose and hastened away.

"The man looked over toward me and beckoned to me. He met me halfway."

"Holmes, was it ... was it ... Jesus?" I blurted out.

"When I spoke to him, he didn't understand my words, and I could not decipher his. I looked quickly for wounds, but his sandals covered the place on his feet through which the nails would have been driven. His hands he kept at his side and his cloak covered them. There were scratches where the crown of thorns might have been, but he could also have gotten them walking through low branches there near the tomb."

"Didn't you try to find out some way?" I urged.

"I put my hands out toward him, palms up, hoping he would do the same. He smiled, turned, and walked away."

"You followed him, of course."

"No, I was content. I needed no further evidence."

"But, Holmes ..." I persisted.

"Watson, you know the story from the Gospel of Saint Luke about the poor man, Lazarus, and the rich man, Dives?"

"Yes, I do, but what has that to do with the Resurrection of Jesus?"

"Father Abraham, with whom Lazarus was, told Dives that even if someone returned from the dead, that would not persuade anyone. As you saw with the Archbishop, what changes people is not the empty tomb, but a heart freed of guilt ..."

My friend, Sherlock Holmes, paused. Then with a twinkle in his eye, he said, "... which, quite frankly, has rarely been a problem with me."

"Oh, Holmes ..." I said, and we laughed together.