Excerpt

OK. Sure. I copied the manuscript. I had to. I really felt there was no other choice. Im not telling you this as an excuse, but as an explanation. I knew it would get me into trouble when I did it. Was it stealing? Im not really sure. I didnt actually take the journal. I just took photos of it and had them translated. I suppose you probably think that Im just deluding myself because I feel guilty about my actions. Well, I can tell you, without being self-righteous, that I probably have just as much right to that journal as The Threshold Foundation. After all, it was I who originally wrote it. And I did let go of my guilt. I paid the price for my actions. I did that gladly and would do it again. That was just the beginning, or at least I thought it was. After I learned the truth concerning the real beginning, I understood why I felt this way. Knowing the beginning gave me a sense of history and a sense of purpose. I always wanted to know, but it seems as if I got much more than I bargained for. If I had not been present when that ancient manuscript was found, I would never have had the history or the purpose, but my life would now be much, much simpler.

I was filming a dig in the Middle East for The Threshold Foundation and the Metropolitan Museum when a certain text in Aramaic was discovered. The document was a journal written by Yehudah bar Joseph, otherwise known as Judas Iscariot.

Here was a find of tremendous proportions. Even though a corporation with known shady business practices was funding the project, I decided to take the job. In fact, I found that I had a lot of trouble, at first, containing my excitement. I couldnt eat. I could hardly sleep as I followed very closely the painstaking process of the text being translated in English. My excitement began to turn to obsession as the process progressed at what appeared to be an ever-declining rate. The scholars of The Threshold Foundation still spend most of their time arguing about interpretations. The process had become a very polarized, political battlefield for them. Meanwhile, my entire being was screaming out in pain for the delivery of each word as if it was to be my next breath of air.

My patience had run out. I was being driven by this obsession and I had to act. Knowing that my camera could take digital photographs as well as video, I acted. I broke into the room where the book was kept and photographed all the pages. Before the sun came up the next day, I had left the dig and traveled to Jerusalem where I went to the home of my friend, Dr. Ernest Wilder.

I knew he would gladly translate the manuscript for me. Dr. Wilder had more experience than all of the other scholars together. His more politicized cohorts on the dig frowned upon his approach, vowing to get rid of this renegade. However, I knew him to be an expert archeologist who based his interpretations upon historical evidence, not upon preconceived doctrines. I had grown to know him during the dig and became his friend. I was saddened when the foundation fired him. When I delivered my photos of the manuscript to him, he acted as though I had reintroduced him to a dear, long lost relative. I wanted to watch the process of the translation, but he sent me away. I dont want to see you for four weeks, he said. After that time you may call and see if I am finished. He gave me his number and practically pushed me out the door.

I buried my almost unbearable obsession in work. For four weeks, I hunted and found enough photo jobs to keep me in my Jerusalem hotel room. I had almost forgotten the manuscript when I received a call from Dr. Wilder. Come to my home immediately, he said. He welcomed me with the same intensity with which he had thrown me out four weeks before. It was as if he was a child with a new toy that he wanted to share with a playmate.

I started reading that very night. I anticipated a great relief. I felt myself strangely drawn into the story as I read it. Soon the words, the images, and the feelings became so familiar they were frightening. I began to relive all the events as if I were there. When I was able to recall events not mentioned in the text, I became truly terrified. I left my room and wandered through Jerusalem aimlessly, wanting to escape what seemed to be, for me, the obvious conclusion: that I had been Judas in another life



So I, a modern scribe, some two thousand years later, (and hopefully some two thousand years wiser), present to you my journal, my Gospel, my account of Jesus. But there is more. I will also present to you my story, the story of my soul. I open to you what I have learned throughout time and all my errors and mistakes. Its a story of hope and a story of forgiveness. Eric told me, Spirit has forgiven us there is no such thing as a throwaway soul. Jesus, himself, was able to forgive the unforgivable. We just have to start with ourselves.