THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO THOMAS

AN EXPOSÉ


The good news is that Jesus is coming back. The bad news is that he's really pissed off.

---- Bob Hope


This was it?

This is what we'd trekked two freezing cold miles for?

This?

"This is a garden?"

Now, I'm not a picky man. I don't ask for fancy meals or nice designer clothes. I don't expect people to bow and scrape as I pass.

But seriously, when people say the word 'garden', I expect a little more than just a scrubby hill with a couple of trees. Small trees.

And a rock. Did I mention the rock?

Well, yeah. There's a rock too.

It's about the only decorative thing on the entire hill.

Peter stumped up to the edge of the path, his hands dug deep into his pockets. "We came all this way for a heap of earth?"

James coughed. "There's a rock." He added hopefully.

Aggrieved scowls spun his way like compasses pointing north. "Fine." Petey gritted out. "A heap of earth and a rock!" His fingers flexed threateningly in his pockets. He was just itching to put his hands around the neck of one Son-of-God. I hoped that Jesus had some rum stored away under that tunic of his. Peter gets physical when he's irritated.

"Hold."

The prophet voice again. Seriously, when was Big Daddy going to realise that this was getting old? Beams of irritation were turned towards Jesus.

The puppy-dog-eyes-meister was swaying on the spot, like a drunken belly dancer. The big eyes were as large as lampposts and his prophetic voice boomed improbably from his tiny chest. "Wait here, my apostles. Do not sleep."

And with that he turned tail and raced up the hill.

I guess he realised that Thady was gnashing his yellow teeth in time with Peter's growling. Our dentist-phobic friend didn't like being taken away just before desert.

For a moment, we glared after him helplessly, a tiny white dot moving with the speed of a frightened rabbit up to the summit of Mount Gethsemane. Then Paul coughed.

"So should we follow him?"

We examined our consciences. Could we in all decency leave the Son-of-God out into the big bad world without a helping hand? Would we really consign him to the dubious mercy of every brigand and cutthroat in Jerusalem?

Stupid question.

"Nah. Let him run. Maybe'll he'll fall over a cliff or something. Go pester someone else for a change."

Sighs of relieved agreement. After all, I pity the brigand that runs into Jesus. He'll never be able to get rid of him.

Suddenly a cry rent the air. It tore through our relaxing atmosphere, shattered our peace. It sounded like a tortured animal caught in a trap, like the screech of knife against stone, like the scream of a baby.

It sounds like our Great Prophet has stubbed his toe again.

I told him to wear sandals. But he listen? Does he ever?

"AAAAAAABBBBBBBBBBBBBBBAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!"

Listen to that boy sing.

The shout echoed off into the night. Peter removed his fingers from his ears and wiped the copious amounts of wax onto his tunic.

"Drama Queen." He muttered, patting his pockets for the spare bottle of wine he carried.

"Too right, my man." Philip muttered in agreement.

The rest of us were too busy falling asleep to care.


"Thom!" Blinding flash of pain lands in my ribs.

Son-of-a-Roman-fleabag! Push off Mammy! Stop poking me! Five more min-

"Tho - om!"

Wait, Mammy never sounds like she's going to cry…

"Thom wake up! Now!"

Okay, that's not Mammy. I rolled over and squinted against the glowing light of the fire.

"…Jesus?" Wasn't he supposed to have run over a cliff by now?

Hearing my reply, the enraged prophet stomped over to kick Philip and then James awake before finally standing in the centre of the camp fire. Pouting down at the bleary pairs of eyes, he started to whine.

"I told you to stay awake. I thought you were my friends. Friends don't make other friends upset." Tears began to spurt out of his eyes now. "I'm going to die and all you can do is go to sleep."

Looking back, I guess we should have paid attention to the whole 'I'm going to die' (cue stamping of foot) part. But Jesus was such a hypochondriac when it came to the common cold, we just thought he was coming down with a dose after wandering across Jerusalem in bare feet.

Now don't look at me like that. I swear it's true. Face down a horde of lepers? No problem. Enter into a plague house? All in a day's work. But catching a cold? Jesus always went down like a stone. Hysterics, premonitions of death, piteous cries for his mother… the whole shebang.

"Jesus." Aha! The Muggins gene comes back into the fore for your beloved Thomas! "Jesus, we're sorry." Pointed cough. "Aren't we lads?"

"Yeah, yeah…"

"Mmmm…"

"Awfully sorry…"

I rubbed my eyes and put on my best placate-the-prophet smile. "So how about, we'll stay awake this time and you go on up and have your little uh… screaming session and we're all happy?"

He sniffed. "It's a prayer session." He retorted sulkily.

Prayer session… Holy cows, if that's a prayer session then I'm Caesar Augustus. "Prayer session then."

A peep of a watery smile. "Really Thom?"

Resist the puppy-dog-eyes! Resist Thomas! "Yeah."

But Jesus wasn't letting go that easily. "Promise?"

Oh, for the love of… "Pinky swear promise." I agreed, crossing my fingers behind my back.

He went off to his scre- sorry, prayer session wreathed in smiles.

Within five minutes I was asleep again.


Yipes! I haven't updated this story in ages. Sorry about that. Anyway, enjoy this special Easter Monday installment! Don't forget to comment!