Fool Me the Second Time, p1 of 3

I’m not going to believe it. No way. Try to fool me the second time? Think again!

And how could someone come back from the grave? It’s crazy. Good solid earth, wood for a fire, and heavy coinage. That’s what you can depend on.

Oh, sure, we’d seen Lazarus raised. He was different afterwards, that’s for sure. Couldn’t quite wrap his words around what death had been like—was almost disappointed to be back up, walking around.

But he’d had Jesus there to do the life-giving. Jesus could do that kind of thing. We saw it more than once. Now Jesus was dead. What was He going to do? Raise Himself?!

No. He’s gone. Had to face it. It’s over. It’d been a wild ride for three years, but it was over. I had learned a lot, seen a lot during those years—things, to be honest, I still can’t explain: a Roman centurion bowing to Him, the walking on water. Everything He said, happened. Boom! But there ya go. Ya see, that was Jesus. Things were just different with Him.

They said, the other guys—Phillip, James, and the rest. All of them. They said He’d somehow appeared out of nowhere and stood in that room with them. Talked to them. They insisted the door was shut tight, even barred.

And there was no talking those guys out of it. No reasoning with them, and I had work to do. I’m not going to hole up in some dark room. Besides, I haven’t seen a Roman all day. Come to think of it, no priests or Levites, either. Guess everyone’s running scared.

“But Thomas, we’ve seen the Lord!” Bah! Don’t you believe it. Peter exaggerates; though, hmm, Matthew usually keeps his facts straight. Oh, forget it. Let them have it.

No way I’ll buy into their fantasies. If you can’t see something, touch it, inspect it, well, how do you know it’s real? And I told them so. Let them try to produce the nail holes, to conjure up the torn, gaping wound of a spear thrust through—thrust through—through His flesh. That can rip at your stomach, but at least it’s hard proof. Without that, what have you got? Nothing.

Nothing. That’s what we had left of those three years. So may as well get on with life, pick up the strings we’d left dangling when we jumped on board Peter’s boat and decided to follow.

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