Authors: Jodi Picoult
“God forbid,” my father said.
“It’s semantics.”
“It’s morality. You’re doing good.”
“By doing bad.”
My father shook his head. “There’s something else about
pikkuah nefesh
… it clears the slate of guilt. You can’t feel remorse about breaking the law, because ethically, you’re obligated to do it.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong. I
can
feel remorse. Because we’re not talking about not fasting on Yom Kippur since you happen to be sick … we’re talking about a man dying.”
“And saving your life.”
I looked up at him. “
Claire’s
life.”
“Two birds with one stone,” my father said. “Maybe it’s not literal in your case, Maggie. But this lawsuit—it’s fired you up. It’s given you something to look forward to.” He looked around my home—the place setting for one, the bowl of popcorn on the table, the rabbit cage.
I suppose there was a point in my life when I wanted the package deal—the chuppah, the husband, the kids, the carpools—but somewhere along the line, I’d just stopped hoping. I had gotten used to living alone, to saving the other half of the can of soup for the next night’s dinner, to only changing the pillowcases on my side of the bed. I had become overly comfortable with myself, so much so that anyone else would have felt like an intrusion.
Pretending, it turned out, took much less effort than hoping.
One of the reasons I loved my parents—and hated them—is that they still thought I had a chance at all that. They only wanted me to be happy; they didn’t see how on earth I could be happy by myself. Which, if you read between the lines, meant they found me just as lacking as I did.
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.”
|||||||||||||||||||||||||
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
not
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 the quotations listed in the Gospel of Thomas?
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?”
“No one knows,” the officer said. “It was Inmate DuFresne who alerted us again. We couldn’t see what happened on the security cameras.”
We entered the infirmary. In a distant, dark corner of the room, Shay was propped up in a bed, a nurse beside him. He held a cup of juice that he sipped through a straw; his other hand was cuffed to the bed’s railing. There were wires coming out from beneath his medical johnny. “How is he?” I asked.
“He’ll live,” the nurse said, and then, realizing her mistake, blushed fiercely. “We hooked him up to monitor his heart. So far, so good.”
I sat down on a chair beside Shay and looked up at Smythe and the nurse. “Can we have a minute?”
“That’s about all you’ve got,” the nurse said. “We just gave him something to knock him out.”
They moved to the far side of the room, and I leaned closer to Shay. “Are you okay?”
“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”
“Oh, try me,” I said.
He glanced over to make sure no one else was listening. “I was just watching TV, you know? This documentary on how they make movie theater candy, like Dots and Milk Duds. And I started to get tired, so I went to turn it off. But before I could push the button, all the light in the television, it shot into me
like electricity. I mean, I could feel those things inside my blood moving around, what are they called again, corporals?”
“Corpuscles.”
“Yeah, right, those. I hate that word. Did you ever see that
Star Trek
where those aliens are sucking the salt out of everything? I always thought they should be called corpuscles. You say the word, and it sounds like you’re eating a lemon …”
“Shay. You were talking about the light.”
“Oh, right, yeah. Well, it was like I started boiling inside, and my eyes, they were going to jelly, and I tried to call out but my teeth were wired shut and then I woke up in here, feeling like I’d been sucked dry.” He looked up at me. “By a
corpuscle
.”
“The nurse said it was a seizure. Do you remember anything else?”
“I remember what I was thinking,” Shay said. “This was what it would feel like.”
“What?”
“Dying.”
I took a deep breath. “Remember when you were little, a kid—and you’d fall asleep in the car? And someone would carry you out and put you into bed, so that when you woke up in the morning, you knew automatically you were home again? That’s what I think it’s like to die.”
“That would be good,” Shay said, his voice deeper, groggy. “It’ll be nice to know what home looks like.”
A phrase I’d read just an hour ago slipped into my mind like a splinter:
The Father’s kingdom is spread out upon the earth, and people don’t see it.
Although I knew it wasn’t the right time, although I knew I was supposed to be here for Shay, instead of the other way around, I leaned closer, until my words could fall into the shell of his ear. “Where did you find the Gospel of Thomas?” I whispered.
Shay stared at me blankly. “Thomas who?” he said, and then his eyes drifted shut.
As I drove away from the prison, I heard Father Walter’s voice:
He’s conned you.
But when I’d mentioned the Gospel of Thomas, I hadn’t seen even the slightest flicker of recognition in Shay’s eyes, and he’d been drugged—it would have been awfully hard to keep dissembling.
Was this what it had felt like for the Jews who met Jesus and recognized him as more than just a gifted rabbi? I had no point of comparison. I’d grown up Catholic; I’d become a priest. I could not remember a time that I hadn’t believed Jesus was the Messiah.
I knew someone, though, who could.
Rabbi Bloom didn’t have a temple, because it had burned down, but he did rent office space close to the school where services were held. I was waiting in front of the locked door when he arrived just before eight a.m.
“Wow,” he said, taking in the vision in front of him—a red-eyed, rumpled priest clutching a motorcycle helmet and the Nag Hammadi texts. “I would have let you borrow it longer than one night.”
“Why don’t Jews believe Jesus was the Messiah?”
He unlocked the door to the office. “That’s going to take at least a cup and a half of coffee,” Bloom said. “Come on in.”
He started brewing a pot and offered me a seat. His office looked a lot like Father Walter’s at St. Catherine’s—inviting, comfortable. A place you’d want to sit and talk. Unlike Father Walter’s, though, Rabbi Bloom’s plants were the real thing. Father Walter’s were plastic, bought by the Ladies’ Aid, when he kept killing everything from a ficus to an African violet.
“It’s a wandering Jew,” the rabbi said when he saw me checking out the flowerpot. “Maggie’s little idea of a joke.”