Becoming Thomas
An earlier version of this post first appeared at Contemplative Journal in July 2015.
Jesus said, “If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you.”
–The Gospel of Thomas, Saying 77
The last two columns in this 3-part series on The Gospel of Thomas asked questions about Thomas’ origins, and whether or not we can view the sayings in this Gospel as the “actual” words of Jesus. The conclusion was that, ultimately, we can’t know for sure if these words were spoken by the historical Jesus—which is the exact same situation we find ourselves in regarding the more familiar gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. That said, the teachings found in Thomas do often seem recorded in more primitive (and thus earlier) forms than what’s found in the canonical gospels, and with less emphasis on apocalyptic or judgment (see the earlier columns for a more in-depth exploration along these lines).
More than that, there’s good reason to believe that Thomas preserves a stream of early Christianity that developed outside of the context of the Roman Empire, which goes a long way in explaining its markedly different tenor. Stephen Patterson has made this case, arguing for Edessa (in present-day Turkey, and long associated with the preaching of Thomas) as the Gospel’s place of origin. Until 214 CE, when Emperor Caracalla made Edessa a Roman colony, Edessa existed fairly unharrassed as a commercial crossroads and caravan town beyond imperial borders.[1]
Back on Roman turf, however, things were heating up for Jews and Christians. In the year 70 CE, the second Jewish Temple was destroyed. Scholars believe that Mark, the earliest of the four canonical gospels, was written sometime shortly after this catastrophic event. And so the four gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John came of age during a time and in an environment that was itself rather apocalyptic, and when Jews and Christians were beginning to formally part ways. Christianity was emerging not just as a “way,” but as a separate identity marker that could be opposed to other identity markers, and with an apocalyptic overlay inherited from the climate of the day.
But the situation was different in Edessa. The times did not feel so apocalyptic or oppositional. Here, outside of empire, a version of Jesus’ teachings was preserved that emphasized spiritual awakening, divine immediacy, and nonduality. Perhaps it was easier to preserve a nondual vision in less dualistic circumstances. Whatever the case, Thomas holds before us a strand of early Christian teaching that honed in on Jesus’ teachings on the alchemy of inner transformation.
It seems likely that this text gradually fell by the wayside not because it was “heretical” (I’ve read commentary from an Eastern Orthodox monk who, after reading Thomas for the first time, claimed with a shock of recognition, “Why this is just Eastern Orthodox mysticism!”)—but simply because “Sayings Gospels” (early collections of Jesus’ teachings without any narrative) fell out of favor as the narrative gospel format (represented now by the canonical gospels) became ascendant in the second half of the 1st century. As Christians moved further away from the event of the Gospel, it became necessary to record not only the teachings, but the story, of Jesus. As sayings collections were incorporated into narrative gospels, they fell out of use and were forgotten.
In this light, we can see Thomas not as a replacement to the narrative gospels, but a supplement. Thomas itself never claims to be a “complete” Gospel—only a collection of the “inner” (often translated “secret”) sayings of Jesus. Rather than competing with the canonical gospels, Thomas gives us a new lens through which to read familiar material, and a wider perspective on one dimension (the “inner”) of Jesus’ teaching. In the last column, we began to explore these inner teachings as they relate to Jesus’ well-known phrase “the kingdom of God.” The meaning of the term remains somewhat obscure in the canonical gospel material—sometimes it seems to represent a time in the future; other times it is “at hand,” or even “within you.” But in Thomas a remarkably consistent vision of the kingdom of God begins to emerge.
In Saying 3, Jesus says: “If your leaders say to you, ‘Look, the kingdom is in the sky,’ then the birds of the sky will precede you. If they say to you, ‘It is in the sea,’ then the fish will precede you. Rather, the kingdom is within you and it is outside you.” And again, in Saying 113: “His disciples said to him, ‘When will the kingdom come?’ Jesus said, ‘It will not come by waiting for it. It will not be a matter of saying “here it is” or “there it is.” Rather, the kingdom of God is spread out upon the earth and people fail to see it.’”
And so, the kingdom is not simply an outer, political or social reality, nor merely an inner, “spiritual” experience: it is both within and outside of you. It won’t be found (only) through world-denying navel-gazing anymore than it will be found (only) through social justice-crusading. It’s a vision that includes, and unites, and needs, both the inner and the outer. It is not an apocalyptic reality that will only arrive in the future, but is already spread out upon the earth—and people fail to see it. It is here, now, within and outside of you—perception is the issue.
How, then, do we see differently? Saying 22 tells us that “Jesus saw some babies nursing. He said to his disciples, ‘These nursing babies are like those who enter the kingdom.’ They said to him, ‘Then shall we enter the kingdom as babies?’ Jesus said to them, ‘When you make the two into one, and when you make the inner like the outer and the outer like the inner, and the upper like the lower, and when you make male and female into a single one, so that male will not be male nor female be female […] then you will enter.”
St. Paul preserves an echo of this teaching in his letter to the Galations: “There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, neither male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus” (3:28). Integration, unification—moving beyond dualistic perception—is the requirement for “entering in.” In Thomas, the “kingdom of God” begins to unmistakably emerge as Jesus’ name for what today we might call “nondual consciousness,” or the capacity to see from unity. The mother nursing her child is an image that includes both twoness and oneness—an intimate union that doesn’t erase difference. This is key to the nondual vision of Thomas—it includes both “the One” and “the Many,” unity and diversity, inner and outer.
This integration is identified throughout Thomas as “singleness” or becoming a “single one.” In Saying 75, Jesus says, “There are many standing at the door, but those who are single will enter the bridal chamber.” “Singleness” emerges as the gospel term for the unification of being, the bringing into alignment of inner and outer. As Jesus says in Luke, “If your eye is single, your whole body is also full of light” (11:34). It is the single one who enters the kingdom, the bridal chamber, the place of union. And, significantly, those who enter will become, not single ones, but “they will stand as a single one” (Saying 23; emphasis added); or again, “many of the first will make themselves last, and will become a single one” (Saying 4). Our awakening into unity cannot be a “personal” or “individual” experience because the unity discovered is not the possession of an isolated ego, but of the entire, universal and cosmic, Body of Christ.
Throughout Thomas, Jesus calls us into his own perception of unity. He calls us not to become Christians, but to become Christ: “Whoever drinks from my mouth will become like me; I myself shall become that person, and the hidden things will be revealed to them” (Saying 108). Or again, in Saying 13: “Jesus said to his disciples, ‘Compare me, tell me whom I am like.’ Simon Peter said to him, ‘You are like a righteous angel.’ Matthew said to him, ‘You are like a wise philosopher.’ Thomas said to him, ‘Master, my mouth is wholly incapable of saying what you are like.’ Jesus said, ‘I am not your master, for you have drunk, and have become intoxicated from the same bubbling spring which I have measured out.’” Thomas does not respond with words, concepts, or labels; rather, he falls silent before the mystery of who Jesus is, and in his silence is one with that mystery.
In the opening lines of the Gospel, Thomas is called “the Twin” (actually, this is the literal meaning of “Thomas”). This twinship, it becomes clear, was no simple biological fact, but Thomas’ own mirroring of Christ, his entering into the mind and heart of Jesus. Thomas became a “single one”—and so discovered himself one with the only One. And so, may we each become Thomas, falling silent in the unknowing that is true knowledge. May we drink from the mouth of Christ and become intoxicated. May we discover ourselves, all together, a single One, and see the kingdom spreading out upon the earth.
Amen.
[1] Stephen J. Patterson, The Lost Way: How Two Forgotten Gospels Are Rewriting the Story of Christian Origins (New York, NY: HarperCollins Publishers, 2014).
