Monday Rewrite Peter’s confused. He scratches his head. The others don’t believe a word of it. How could it be true? And what’s the value of a woman’s tale anyway to them? Surely if this momentous thing has truly occurred it would be to a bunch of reliable witnesses. To one of the religious elite, or to the Roman Governor, someone who will announce it to the world. Or at least to his closest friends. But Peter can’t sit still now, can’t just side with the tutting head shaking bunch of other disciples. He’s walking on water again, he’s up and running and going to see for himself. Of course it couldn’t be true. Could it? And if it is, what’s it mean anyway? Surely nothing but recrimination and punishment for him anyway. After all the mess he’s made of it, after his broken promises, confusion and cowardice. Why would Jesus want to be his friend anymore? On his side. Peter’s been no hero, only shown himself to be small and stupid. Surely he’ll be ostracised, rejected now. Yet he’s still here running, and the tomb is coming closer, and that doorway is clearly open. That stone has been moved all right, and not by those women who came back with their excited, red-faced, hastily-spilled story of resurrection. They’d never move that hefty rock. Something’s clearly amiss. So he holds nothing back, it’s his way, wholehearted, full-blooded, he shambles into the tomb. And there it is. Or rather there it isn’t. No body. Nothing there. Just a few remnants of grave clothes, and some shattered splinters of dropped embalming jars crunching beneath his clumsy feet. But no sign of the body. Is this what resurrection looks like then? An absence of death, an absence of the horror of rejection and pain and loss. But there must be more. If he’s not here, where is he? He looks around, this way and that, twisting hurriedly, violently, like his old fishing boat in a storm. No sign of any shining bright angels. There are some footprints. One set bigger than the others. Are these his? Is this the sign of the risen King? The man who told him not to fear death? He follows the trails of steps outside. He shivers. Is he looking at the signs of a dead man living again? A killed hero walking free? If so what’s that mean. He follows the trail of steps, they lead back towards reality, back towards normality, back to the places of the people. Then the trail is scuffed and lost amongst so many other steps and marks. Peter scratches his head. So he’s confused. What now? What now? Dare he trust that something new has started?
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