“I wasn’t that close,” says one of them. “I was halfway down the hill, taking cover in the crowd. But I could hear him, all the same. We could all hear him: ‘Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.’”

            “It was just as he says,” nods another. “I heard it too. Even he gave up at the end. Even he admitted it was all over.”

            So he’s dead, then. Finished. Of that, there can be no doubt. No one was ever nailed to a Roman cross and lived to tell the tale.

            But what to make of this gossip, these rumors, from people who claim to have seen him alive? Wishful thinking, that’s all it is. Wishful thinking.

            The little group sits, for a time, in dejected silence. The only movement in the room is the dancing of dust motes in a sunbeam; the only sound, the soft intake and expulsion of their breath. Life goes on, they’ve solemnly advised one another. But the words hold scant comfort.

            In time, the disciples become aware they are not alone. There is a presence in their midst. No, a stranger. How did he get in?

            “Shalom,” says the stranger, softly. “Peace.”

            It’s strange, but as they hear that word, they feel little peace. What they feel is the hairs on their arms standing on end, an icy foreboding growing in the pit of the stomach. That voice — they know it. That face — they know it too. This can only be some ghoulish apparition.

            “Why are you frightened, and why do doubts arise in your hearts? Look at my hands and my feet; see that it is I myself. Touch me and see; for a ghost doe

...approximately 1,669 words remaining. You are not logged in. Please see options at the top of this page to view complete sermon.