I could feel my eyes filling with tears. 'I'm tired,' I said. 'You should go now.'
'Maggie-'
When he reached for me, I ducked away. 'Good night.'
I punched buttons on the remote control until the television went black. Oliver crept out from behind my desk to investigate, and I scooped him up. Maybe this was why I chose to spend my free time with a rabbit: he didn't offer unwanted advice. 'You forgot one little detail,' I said. 'Pikkuah nefesh doesn't apply to an atheist.'
My father paused in the act of taking his coat from the world's ugliest coat rack. He slipped it over his arm and walked toward me. 'I know it sounds strange for a rabbi,' he said, 'but it's never mattered to me what you believe in, Mags, as long as you believe in yourself as much as I do.'
He settled his hand on top of Oliver's back. Our fingers brushed, but I didn't look up at him. 'And that's not semantics.'
'Daddy-'
He held up a hand to shush me and opened the door. 'I'll tell your mother to get you new pajamas for your birthday,' he said, pausing at the threshold. 'Those have a hole in the butt.'
M I C HAEL
In 1945, two brothers were digging beneath cliffs in Nag Hammadi,
Egypt, trying to find fertilizer. One-Mohammed Ali-struck something hard as he dug. He unearthed a large earthenware jug, covered with a red dish. Afraid that a jinn would be inside it, Mohammed Ali didn't want to open the jar. Finally, the curiosity of finding gold instead led him to break it open-only to find thirteen papyrus books inside, bound in gazelle leather.
Some of the books were burned for firewood. The others made their way to religious scholars, who dated them to have been written around A.D. 140, about thirty years after the New Testament-and deciphered them to find the names of gospels not found in the Bible, full of sayings that were in the New Testament... and many that weren't. In some, Jesus spoke in riddles; in others, the Virgin birth and bodily resurrection were dismissed. They came to be known as the Gnostic gospels, and even today, they are given short shrift by the Church.
In seminary, we learned about the Gnostic gospels. Namely, we learned that they were heresy. And let me tell you, when a priest hands you a text and tells you this is what nor to believe, it colors the way you read it. Maybe I skimmed the text, saving the careful close analysis for the Bible. Maybe I whiffed completely and told the priest who was teaching that course that I'd done my homework when in fact I didn't.
Whatever the excuse, that night when I cracked open Joel Bloom's book, it was as if I'd never seen the words before, and although I planned to only read the foreword by the scholar who'd compiled the texts-a man named Ian Fletcher-I found myself devouring the pages as if it were the latest Stephen King novel and not a collection of ancient gospels.
The book had been earmarked to the Gospel of Thomas. Any mentions of Thomas I knew from the Bible certainly weren't flattering: He doesn't believe Lazarus will rise from the dead. When Jesus tells His disciples to follow Him, Thomas points out that they don't know where to go. And when Jesus rises after the crucifixion, Thomas isn't even there-and won't believe it until he can touch the wounds with his own hands. He's the very definition of faithless-and the origin of the term doubting Thomas.
Yet in Rabbi Bloom's book, this page began:
These are the secret words which the living Jesus spoke, and the twin, Didymos Judas Thomas, wrote them down.
Twin? Since when did Jesus have a twin?
The rest of the 'gospel' was not a narrative of Jesus's life, like Matthew,
Mark, Luke, and John, but a collection of quotes by Jesus, all beginning with the words Jesus said. Some were lines similar to those in the Bible. Others were completely unfamiliar and sounded more like logic puzzles than any scripture:
If you bring forth what is within you, what is within you will save you. If you don't bring forth what is within you, what is within you will destroy you.
I read the line over twice and rubbed my eyes. There was something about it that made me feel as if I'd heard it before.
Then I realized where.
Shay had said it to me the first time I'd met with him, when he'd explained why he wanted to donate his heart to Claire Nealon.
I kept reading intently, hearing Shay's voice over and over again:
The dead aren't alive, and the living won't die.
We come from the light.
Split a piece of wood; I am there. Lift up the stone; you will find me there.
The first time I had gone on a roller coaster, I felt like this-like the ground had been pulled out from beneath my feet, like I was going to be sick, like I needed something to grab hold of.
If you asked a dozen people on the street if they'd ever heard of the
Gnostic gospels, eleven would look at you as if you were crazy. In fact most people today couldn't even recite the Ten Commandments. Shay
Bourne's religious training had been minimal and fragmented; the only thing I'd ever seen him 'read' was the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue.
He couldn't write; he could barely follow a thought through to the end of one sentence. His formal schooling ended at a GED he'd gotten while at the juvenile detention facility.
How, then, could Shay Bourne have memorized the Gospel of
Thomas? Where would he even have stumbled across it in his lifetime?
The only answer I could come up with was that he hadn't.
It could have been coincidence.
I could have been remembering the conversations incorrectly.
Or-maybe-I could have been wrong about him.
The past three weeks, I had pushed past the throngs of people camped out in front of the prison. I had turned off the television when yet another pundit suggested that Shay might be the Messiah. After all, I knew better. I was a priest; I had taken vows; I understood that there was one God. His message had been recorded in the Bible, and above all else, when Shay spoke, he did not sound like Jesus in any of the four gospels.
But here was a fifth. A gospel that hadn't made it into the Bible but was equally as ancient. A gospel that espoused the beliefs of at least some people during the birth of Christianity. A gospel that Shay Bourne had quoted to me.
What if the Church forefathers had gotten it wrong?
What if the gospels that had been dismissed and debunked were the real ones, and the ones that had been picked for the New Testament were the embellished versions? What if Jesus had actually said
It would mean that the allegations being made about Shay Bourne might not be that far off the mark.
And it would explain why a Messiah might return in the guise of a convicted murderer-to see if this time, we might get it right.
I got out of my chair, folding the book by my side, and started to pray.
Heavenly Father, I said silently, help me understand.
The telephone rang, making me jump. I glanced at the clock-who would call after three in the morning?
'Father Michael? This is CO Smythe, from the prison. Sorry to disturb you at this hour, but Shay Bourne had another seizure. We thought you'd want to know.'
'Is he all right?'
'He's in the infirmary,' Smythe said. 'He asked for you.'
At this hour, the vigilant masses outside the prison were tucked into their sleeping bags and tents, underneath the artificial day created by the enormous spotlights that flooded the front of the building. I had to be buzzed in; when I entered the receiving area, CO Smythe was waiting for me. 'What happened?'
