An aprocryphal story tells of Jesus appearing to his disciples after the crucifixion. He says, “I was wrong; there is no God”. One of them replies, “Teacher, we have seen in you all we ever thought God to be. You are the Lord”.

In Lloyd Douglas’s novel The Robe a young tribune, Marcellus, gambles for and wins the seamless garment that had been worn by the man whose death on a cross he had witnessed. Upon donning it he finds that his life begins to be strangely changed. During subsequent travels he often pauses at high points on the road. Looking about, he says that he has the persistent feeling that he will someday meet again, perhaps unexpectedly, the one whose garment he now often wears.

One has not read accounts of life-altering personal encounters with Zoroaster, Krishna or Lao Tzu, edifying as they might be. Many, however, have told of experiencing the transforming presence of the Man from Galilee. Some have sung, often on their knees, the Communion hymn that begins, “Jesus, these eyes have never seen / that radiant form of thine”.

It concludes, “Yet, though I have not seen and still / Must rest in faith alone / I love thee, dearest Lord, and will, / Unseen but not unknown”.

Whatever one’s experience of life’s vicissitudes, failures and broken relationships or of anger at those who betray the ideals of religious institutions (of whom he himself was notably critical) the figure of Jesus towers “o’er the wrecks of time” as does the great statue of Cristo Redentor (Christ the Redeemer) over Rio de Janeiro from the Corcovado mountain.

Christians worldwide are marking Holy Week, the solemn day by day remembrance of the Passion, the betrayal and suffering, of Jesus. On Sunday, Easter begins. It is neither one day nor one weekend; it continues until Pentecost, 23 May this year. The central theme is that in every place and at any time one may, even reluctantly or by surprise, experience the Real Presence of him whose Resurrection frustrated the purpose of those who had hoped to be rid of him.

The Resurrection does not mean the resuscitation of the kind of body that would again have to die. The Book of Common Prayer burial rite speaks of a believer’s “resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ who shall change our mortal body that it may be like unto his glorified body”. That is the eschatological, ‘end-time’, aspect of faith that is not easily understood by those whose mindset has been formed by a lifetime of secular concerns. Neither is the reported Easter experience of a Presence that was not subject to physical limitations. “There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy”, said Hamlet to Horatio.

Theologians have defined the term “the Body of Christ”, the ways in which one sees and reaches out to him, differently. There was the natural body natum de Maria Virgine. There was the Resurrection appearances recorded in the Gospels. There is the corporate Mystical Body, “the blessed company of all faithful people”.

Finally, there are the Eucharistic Body and Blood defined by Thomas Aquinas’s doctrine of ‘transubstantiation’ or Martin Luther’s of ‘consubstantiation’. Others, using fiscal rather than philosophical terminology, have spoken of the ‘re-evaluation’ of the bread and wine – if, indeed, a mystery can be explained in any terms. As an early Christian apologist said, such things are a stumbling block to many and nonsense to some others. So are many other aspects of human experience.

Years ago I met Patrick Cowley, the Vicar of Frome (‘Froom’) in Somerset, England. He gave me a copy of his brochure, The Parish is the Passion.

It assumed a parish to be a geographical area rather than a gathered congregation. Its argument is that we are all, knowingly or unknowingly, on stage and playing a part in a Passion Play.

As in Fulton Oursler’s 1949 book The Greatest Story Ever Told, the central character, Cowley suggested, is Jesus of Nazareth whose followers, now as then, say is alive after having experienced death. Whatever one may think of religious institutions, it is one’s relationship with him that is important when “all the world’s a stage”. Some try to walk closely with him; others deride him and his followers. Some are called to carry a cross of suffering with him; others mock him or decline to become involved. Canon Cowley suggested that everyone should ask “What role am I actually playing in the Great Story”?

In the Bavarian village of Oberammergau a Passion Play has, with only three exceptions, been presented every ten years since the mid 17th Century. As again this year from May to September, 75 main performances take place with the villagers playing the various roles. The parts are doubly cast, the actors alternating daily on the stage beyond the opening in the roof of which one can see the mountains and birds in the sky.

Between performances one recognises Pontius Pilate in the post office or Mary in a grocery store. The actors receive only compensation for the time away from their daily occupations. For the visitor the village is like a place out of time, with its idyllic scenery, frescoed houses, woodcarvers’ shops and children who could have stepped with Heidi out of Johanna Spyri’s book.

Neither Holy Week nor the Passion Play mourn the death of a martyr. They recall the terrible cost of a victory over an alliance between a military government and a self-righteous religious hierarchy.

Faith affirms that by his vicarious life and death and the way in which he embodies both human and divine perfection, Jesus has been raised to the pre-eminent glory that Easter celebrates. Among humanity’s heroes, prophets and divinities he is unique.

“Lord, life can be so evil without you”, says a prayer of the exemplary Gregory I (John Calvin’s “last great pope”). Does post- Christian society increasingly show that to be the case? As a familiar advertising tagline says, “Now, that’s worth a talk”.