It all started with his triumphant entry into Jerusalem. We all felt that here was the one riding into the city to fulfil all the prophecies; here was the one who would rout the Romans and restore our nation. But instead of routing the Romans, he burst into the Temple and attacked our fellow citizens. All they were trying to do is earn an honest shilling … well, a little bit more than an honest shilling, I’ll grant you. But who doesn’t fiddle their income and expenditure every now and then?.

Not content with that, he then went and had that supper with that leper, and that woman came in and broke that bottle containing that perfume. We just didn’t know what to make of it all. But one of us had had enough. For some time we’d been able to see that Judas was at breaking point. And that was the last straw. He was furious, absolutely furious. I really thought that would be the last time we’d see him. But he was there the next night, for Passover. And Jesus seemed just as pleased to have him there as the rest of us. We were enjoying a great Passover supper. All the usual stuff: lamb with all the trimmings. Poor old James drew the short straw, so he had to eat his meal standing up with the staff in his hand, as a reminder of what God said to Moses. And then, well you probably heard what happened next … the cup, the bread, the second cup … the blazing row between Judas and Jesus … and the rest, as they say, is history.

We thought we knew what we were letting ourselves in for when he told us we were going up to Jerusalem for Passover. How wrong we were.

He was nailed to a cross; strung up in excruciating pain; and us, his closest friends, couldn’t bring ourselves to be there. Only the women were strong enough to witness his final breath. We were looking for some kind of consolation – no, that’s far too lofty. We were looking to save our own skins. They were able to remain steadfast, and to walk him into the darkness.

And so it was, this last seven days; a week of immense highs and the deepest lows. A roller-coaster of events and emotions. And we thought it was all over.

Then this morning, the third day after he died, the women (why is it always the women) got up early and went to the tomb. And instead of finding it how it was left, they found … well, to be frank, we’re not quite sure what they found. They came back filled with a combination of fear and joy. It was as if all our emotions of the whole week were caught up in that one moment. And they told us of empty tombs, of messengers from God, of rolled up grave clothes, of gardeners and of Jesus, alive and well.

And it’s not true that we didn’t believe the women! I know that’s what Luke wrote, that we thought their story was nothing but an idle tail. But, come on, give us a break. We’d been through so much that week, how were we supposed to react? OK, so some of us did say some things to the women that we later regretted! For my own part, I have apologised!

But even hearing about what they saw, and coming to believe that it really did happen, didn’t help us that much. We still had the Romans breathing down our necks. They also wanted to know what had happened to the body. And if they couldn’t put Jesus back in the tomb, they were certainly going to make someone pay for it. Well, look at it from their point of view: their necks were on the line … literally!

And we thought it was all over … but it hadn’t even started.

For there we were, back together in that upstairs room. But this time, not for Passover, but for our own safety. Out of fear we gathered together. Safety in numbers, I guess you’d call it. And suddenly, there he was, in the middle of us all. I have no idea how he got there. I can’t begin to imagine that anyone actually unlocked the door to let him in. Thomas, of course, never really accepted he had just appeared, not even when he believed that he was alive again.

And those words … they were like nectar. Talk about “oil on troubled waters”. It was as if the Romans had been overthrown, had been sent (like that herd of pigs) headlong into the ocean, with their tails between their legs. Such a simple phrase, but offering such reassurance:

Peace be with you

He always knew just what to say. It was what we needed: not just to hear, but deeper than that. We needed that peace which passes all understanding. It felt so good to hear him, to see him, to touch him.

And the women managed to keep themselves from rubbing our noses in it too much!

And then he said it again:

Peace be with you.

It was as if we all let out a huge sigh of relief. Now, it is all over. Peace is with us. Rome may still be here. Injustice may still exist. The rough places are still rough places. But it all makes sense, for peace is with us.

And we really thought it was all over … but it was only just getting going.

For what he then said brought us up short:

As the Father sent me, so I send you.

We’re just getting our heads round his betrayal, his execution, his death, his burial, his new life, his peace which passes all understanding. And suddenly he challenges us to accept that it’s not enough to be a friend, to be an assistant, to be a bystander. Surely he can’t want any more of us. We’ve given three years of our lives. We’ve followed and watched and helped and hoped. What does he want of us now. How can he be sending us somewhere new from beyond the grave?

We had thought is was all over … but that roller-coaster just kept on going.

The wonder of the reassurance, and the surprise of the challenge were nothing compared to the utter shock of total responsibility:

If you forgive another persons sins, they are forgiven.

If you do not forgive, they are not forgiven.

How can he do that to us? What has possessed this man to give us such power, such authority, such responsibility to such ordinary people like us? Why has he taken that risk?

And then from the depths of memory, words from a Psalm form in my mind; words I heard again just a few short days ago; words that have bothered me and troubled me from that day to this:

Into your hands I commend my spirit.