Status Updates From Death comes from the Archbi...

At the moment of the Elevation the dark priest seemed to give his whole force, his swarthy body and all its blood, to that lifting-up. Rightly guided, the Bishop reflected, this Mexican might have been a great man. He had an altogether compelling personality, a disturbing, mysterious, magnetic power.

We have a living Church here, not a dead arm of the European Church. Our religion grew out of the soil, and has its own roots. We pay a filial respect to the person of the...and we resent its interference. The Church the Franciscan Fathers planted here was cut off; this is the second growth, and is indigenous. Our people are the most devout left in the world.

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The wind, he knew, was blowing out of the inky cloud bank that lay behind the mountain at sunset, but it might well be blowing out of a remote, black past [of white men ravishing the Pecos people of their resources, health, and people]. The only human voice raised against it was the feeble wailing of the sick child in the cradle. Clara ate noiselessly in a corner, Jacinto looked into the fire.

At this moment Father Joseph was lying dangerously ill in the dirt and discomfort of a village in winter. Why, the Bishop was asking himself, had he ever brought his friend to this life of hardship and danger?